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GONDOLA    DAYS 


BACK    OF    THE    RIALTO   (PAGE87J 


GONDOLA  DAYS 

BY  F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 

BY  THE  AUTHOR 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  AND 
COMPANY  THE  RIVERSIDE 
PRESS     CAMBRIDGE     1897 


COPYRIGHT,    l8g7,    BY   F.  HOPKINSON    SMITH 
ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 


6  7V 


AO 


NOTE 

THE  text  of  this  volume  is  the  same  as  that  of 
"Venice  of  To-Day,"  recently  published  by  the 
Henry  T.  Thomas  Company,  of  New  York,  as  a  sub- 
scription book,  in  large  quarto  and  folio  form,  with 
over  two  hundred  illustrations  by  the  Author,  in  color 
and  in  black  and  white. 


PREFATORY 

n  n  n  T  HAVE  made  no  at- 
1  tempt  in  these  pages 
to  review  the  splendors 
of  the  past,  or  to  probe 
the  many  vital  questions 
which  concern  the  pre- 
sent, of  this  wondrous 
City  of  the  Sea.  Neither 
have  I  ventured  to  discuss  the  marvels  of  her 
architecture,  the  wealth  of  her  literature  and 
art,  nor  the  growing  importance  of  her  com- 
merce and  manufactures. 

I  have  contented  myself  rather  with  the 
Venice  that  you  see  in  the  sunlight  of  a  sum- 
mer's day  —  the  Venice  that  bewilders  with 
her  glory  when  you  land  at  her  water-gate  ; 
that  delights  with  her  color  when  you  idle 
along  the  Riva ;  that  intoxicates  with  her 
music  as  you  lie  in  your  gondola  adrift  on  the 
bosom  of  some  breathless  lagoon  —  the  Venice 
of  mould-stained  palace,  quaint  caffeand  arch- 
ing bridge  ;  of  fragrant  incense,  cool,  dim- 
lighted  church,  and  noiseless  priest ;  of  strong- 
armed  men  and  graceful  women  —  the  Venice 
of  light  and  life,  of  sea  and  sky  and  melody. 
No  pen  alone   can   tell   this   story.     The 


pencil  and  the  palette  must  lend  their  touch 
when  one  would  picture  the  wide  sweep  of 
her  piazzas,  the  abandon  of  her  gardens,  the 
charm  of  her  canal  and  street  life,  the  happy 
indolence  of  her  people,  the  faded  sumptuous- 
ness  of  her  homes. 

If  I  have  given  to  Venice  a  prominent 
place  among  the  cities  of  the  earth  it  is  be- 
cause in  this  selfish,  materialistic,  money-get- 
ting age,  it  is  a  joy  to  live,  if  only  for  a  day, 
where  a  song  is  more  prized  than  a  soldo ; 
where  the  poorest  pauper  laughingly  shares 
his  scanty  crust ;  where  to  be  kind  to  a  child 
is  a  habit,  to  be  neglectful  of  old  age  a  shame  ; 
a  city  the  relics  of  whose  past  are  the  lessons 
of  our  future  ;  whose  every  canvas,  stone,  and 
bronze  bear  witness  to  a  grandeur,  luxury, 
and  taste  that  took  a  thousand  years  of  en- 
ergy to  perfect,  and  will  take  a  thousand 
years  of  neglect  to  destroy. 

To  every  one  of  my  art-loving  countrymen 
this  city  should  be  a  Mecca ;  to  know  her 
thoroughly  is  to  know  all  the  beauty  and  ro- 
mance of  five  centuries. 

F.  H.  S. 


CONTENTS 


An  Arrival  .... 

I 

Gondola  Days  .... 

8 

Along  the  Riva    . 

28 

The  Piazza  of  San  Marco . 

42 

In  an  Old  Garden 

.         .       58 

Among  the  Fishermen 

85 

A  Gondola  Race  . 

.      lOI 

Some  Venetian  Gaffes 

116 

On  the  Hotel  Steps      . 

.     126 

Open-Air  Markets     . 

.        136 

On  Rainy  Days    . 

.     145 

Legacies  of  the  Past 

155 

Life  in  the  Streets 

.     176 

Night  in  Venice 

197 

LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Back  of  the  Rialto  (see  page  Sy)  Frontispiece 
The  Gateless  Posts  of  the  Piazzetta  .  14 
The  One  Whistler  etched  .         .  26 

Beyond  San  Rosario  ....  58 
The  Catch  of  the  Morning        .         .  90 

A  Little  Hole  in  the  Wall  on  the  Via 

Garibaldi  .         .         .         .         .         .116 

Ponte  Paglia  .  .  .  next  the  Bridge  of 

Sighs 136 

The  Fruit  Market  above  the  Rialto  .  140 
Wide  Palatial  Staircases  .  .  .160 
Narrow  Slits  of  Canals  .  .  .  186 
San  Giorgio  stands  on  Tip-toe      .         .     198 


AN   ARRIVAL 

^OU  really  begin  to  arrive  in 
Venice  when  you  leave  Milan. 
Your  train  is  hardly  out  of  the 
station  before  you  have  con- 
jured up  all  the  visions  and  tra- 
ditions of  your  childhood  :  great  rows  of 
white  palaces  running  sheer  into  the  water; 
picture-book  galleys  reflected  upside  down 
in  red  lagoons  ;  domes  and  minarets,  kiosks, 
towers,  and  steeples,  queer-arched  temples, 
and  the  like. 

As  you  speed  on  in  the  dusty  train,  your 
memory-fed  imagination  takes  new  flights. 
You  expect  gold-encrusted  barges,  hung  with 
Persian  carpets,  rowed  by  slaves  double- 
banked,  and  trailing  rare  brocades  in  a  sea 
of  China-blue,  to  meet  you  at  the  water 
landing. 

By  the  time  you  reach  Verona  your  men- 
tal panorama  makes  another  turn.  The  very 
name  suggests  the  gay  lover  of  the  bal 
masque,  the  poisoned  vial,  and  the  calcium 
moonlight  illuminating  the  wooden  tomb  of 
the  stage-set  graveyard.  You  instinctively 
look  around  for  the  fair  Juliet  and  her  nurse. 
There  are  half  a  dozen  as  pretty  Veronese, 


An  attended  by  their  watchful  duennas,  going 

Arrival  down  by  train  to  the  City  by  the  Sea ;  but 
they  do  not  satisfy  you.  You  want  one  in 
a  tight-fitting  white  satin  gown  with  flow- 
ing train,  a  diamond-studded  girdle,  and  an 
ostrich-phime  fan.  The  nurse,  too,  must  be 
stouter,  and  have  a  high-keyed  voice ;  be 
bent  a  little  in  the  back,  and  shake  her 
finger  in  a  threatening  way,  as  in  the  old 
mezzotints  you  have  seen  of  Mrs.  Siddons 
or  Peg  Woffington.  This  pair  of  Dulcineas 
on  the  seat  in  front,  in  silk  dusters,  with  a 
lunch-basket  and  a  box  of  sweets,  are  too 
modern  and  commonplace  for  you,  and  will 
not  do. 

When  you  roll  into  Padua,  and  neither 
doge  nor  inquisitor  in  ermine  or  black  gown 
boards  the  train,  you  grow  restless.  A  dead- 
ening suspicion  enters  your  mind.  What  if, 
after  all,  there  should  be  no  Venice  ?  Just 
as  there  is  no  Robinson  Crusoe  nor  man 
Friday ;  no  stockade,  nor  little  garden  ;  no 
Shahrazad  telling  her  stories  far  into  the 
Arabian  night ;  no  Santa  Claus  with  rein- 
deer ;  no  Rip  Van  Winkle  haunted  by  queer 
little  gnomes  in  fur  caps.  As  this  suspicion 
deepens,  the  blood  clogs  in  your  veins,  and  a 
thousand  shivers  go  down  your  spine.  You 
begin  to  fear  that  all  these  traditions  of  your 


childhood,  all  these  dreams  and  fancies,  are^« 
like  the  thousand  and   one  other  lies  that^^^^^^'^ 
have  been  told  to  and  believed  by  you  since 
the  days  when  you  spelled  out  words  in  two 
syllables. 

Upon  leaving  Mestre  —  the  last  station  — 
you  smell  the  salt  air  of  the  Adriatic  through 
the  open  car  window.  Instantly  your  hopes 
revive.  Craning  your  head  far  out,  you  catch 
a  glimpse  of  a  long,  low,  monotonous  bridge, 
and  away  off  in  the  purple  haze,  the  dreary 
outline  of  a  distant  city.  You  sink  back  into 
your  seat  exhausted.  Yes,  you  knew  it  all 
the  time.  The  whole  thing  is  a  swindle  and 
a  sham  ! 

"  All  out  for  Venice,"  says  the  guard,  in 
French. 

Half  a  dozen  porters  —  well-dressed,  civil- 
spoken  porters,  flat-capped  and  numbered  — 
seize  your  traps  and  help  you  from  the  train. 
You  look  up.  It  is  like  all  the  rest  of  the 
depots    since  you   left    Paris  —  high,   dingy, 

besmoked,  beraftered,  beglazed,  and  be ! 

No,  you  are  past  all  that.  You  are  not  angry. 
You  are  merely  broken-hearted.  Another 
idol  of  your  childhood  shattered  ;  another 
coin  that  your  soul  coveted,  nailed  to  the 
wall  of  your  experience  —  a  counterfeit ! 

"This   door   to   the   gondolas,"    says   the 

3 


An  porter.     He  is  very  polite.     If  he  were  less 

Arrival  gQ^  yQ^  might  make  excuse  to  brain  him  on 
the  way  out. 

The  depot  ends  in  a  narrow  passageway. 
It  is  the  same  old  fraud  —  custom-house 
officers  on  each  side  ;  man  with  a  punch 
mutilating  tickets  ;  rows  of  other  men  with 
brass  medals  on  their  arms  the  size  of  apo- 
thecaries' scales  —  hackmen,  you  think,  with 
their  whips  outside  —  licensed  runners  for 
the  gondoliers,  you  learn  afterward.  They 
are  all  shouting  —  all  intent  on  carrying  you 
off  bodily.     The  vulgar  modern  horde  ! 

Soon  you  begin  to  breathe  more  easily. 
There  is  another  door  ahead,  framing  a  bit 
of  blue  sky.  "  At  least,  the  sun  shines 
here,"  you  say  to  yourself.  "  Thank  God  for 
that  much ! " 

"  This  way,  Signore." 

One  step,  and  you  stand  in  the  light.  Now 
look  !  Below,  at  your  very  feet,  a  great  flight 
of  marble  steps  drops  down  to  the  water's 
edge.  Crowding  these  steps  is  a  throng  of 
gondoliers,  porters,  women  with  fans  and 
gay-colored  gowns,  priests,  fruit-sellers,  water- 
carriers,  and  peddlers.  At  the  edge,  and 
away  over  as  far  as  the  beautiful  marble 
church,  a  flock  of  gondolas  lil:e  black  swans 
curve  in  and  out.  Beyond  stretches  the 
4 


double  line  of  church  and  palace,  bordering  ^« 
the  glistening  highway.     Over  all  is  the  soft^^^^^^*^ 
golden  haze,  the  shimmer,  the  translucence 
of  the  Venetian  summer  sunset. 

With  your  head  in  a  whirl,  —  so  intense  is 
the  surprise,  so  foreign  to  your  traditions 
and  dreams  the  actuality,  —  you  throw  your- 
self on  the  yielding  cushions  of  a  waiting 
gondola.  A  turn  of  the  gondolier's  wrist, 
and  you  dart  into  a  narrow  canal.  Now 
the  smells  greet  you  —  damp,  cool,  low-tide 
smells.  The  palaces  and  warehouses  shut 
out  the  sky.  C3n  you  go  —  under  low  bridges 
of  marble,  fringed  with  people  leaning  list- 
lessly over  ;  around  sharp  corners,  their  red 
and  yellow  bricks  worn  into  ridges  by  thou- 
sands of  rounding  boats ;  past  open  plazas 
crowded  with  the  teeming  life  of  the  city. 
The  shadows  deepen ;  the  waters  glint  like 
flakes  of  broken  gold-leaf.  High  up  in  an 
opening  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  tower, 
rose-pink  in  the  fading  light ;  it  is  the  Cam- 
panile. Farther  on,  you  slip  beneath  an  arch 
caught  between  two  palaces  and  held  in  mid- 
air. You  look  up,  shuddering  as  you  trace 
the  outlines  of  the  fatal  Bridge  of  Sighs. 
For  a  moment  all  is  dark.  Then  you  glide 
into  a  sea  of  opal,  of  amethyst  and  sapphire. 

The  gondola  stops  near  a  small  flight  of 

S 


An  stone  steps  protected  by  huge  poles  striped 

Arrival  -^yith  blue  and  red.  Other  gondolas  are  de- 
barking. A  stout  porter  in  gold  lace  steadies 
yours  as  you  alight. 

"  Monsieur's  rooms  are  quite  ready.  They 
are  over  the  garden  ;  the  one  with  the  bal- 
cony overhanging  the  water." 

The  hall  is  full  of  people  (it  is  the  Britan- 
nia, the  best  hotel  in  Venice),  grouped  about 
the  tables,  chatting  or  reading,  sipping  coffee 
or  eating  ices.  Beyond,  from  an  open  door, 
comes  the  perfume  of  flowers.  You  pass 
out,  cross  a  garden,  cool  and  fresh  in  the 
darkening  shadows,  and  enter  a  small  room 
opening  on  a  staircase.  You  walk  up  and 
through  the  cosy  apartments,  push  back  a 
folding  glass  door,  and  step  out  upon  a  bal- 
cony of  marble. 

How  still  it  all  is  !  Only  the  plash  of  the 
water  about  the  bows  of  the  gondolas,  and 
the  little  waves  snapping  at  the  water-steps. 
Even  the  groups  of  people  around  the  small 
iron  tables  below,  partly  hidden  by  the  bloom 
of  oleanders,  talk  in  half-heard  whispers. 

You  look  about  you,  — the  stillness  filling 
your  soul,  the  soft  air  embracing  you,  —  out 
over  the  blossoms  of  the  oleanders,  across 
the  shimmering  water,  beyond  the  beautiful 
dome  of  the  Salute,  glowing  like  a  huge 
6 


pearl  in  the  dear  evening  light.     No,  it  is  An 
not  the  Venice  of  your  childhood  ;  not  the-^''''^^'^^ 
dream   of  your   youth.      It   is    softer,    more 
mellow,  more   restful,  more  exquisite  in  its 
harmonies. 

Suddenly  a  strain  of  music  breaks  upon 
your  ear  —  a  soft,  low  strain.  Nearer  it 
comes,  nearer.  You  lean  forward  over  the 
marble  rail  to  catch  its  meaning.  Far  away 
across  the  surface  of  the  beautiful  sea  floats 
a  tiny  boat.  Every  swing  of  the  oar  leaves 
in  its  wake  a  quivering  thread  of  gold.  Now 
it  rounds  the  great  red  buoy,  and  is  lost 
behind  the  sails  of  a  lazy  lugger  drifting  with 
the  tide.  Then  the  whole  broad  water  rings 
with  the  melody.  In  another  instant  it  is 
beneath  you — the  singer  standing,  holding 
his  hat  for  your  pennies  ;  the  chorus  seated, 
with  upturned,  expectant  faces. 

Into  the  empty  hat  you  pour  all  your  store 
of  small  coins,  your  eyes  full  of  tears. 

7 


GONDOLA    DAYS 

iHAT  first  morning  in  Venice ! 
It  is  the  summer,  of  course  — 
never  the  winter.  This  beauti- 
ful bride  of  the  sea  is  loveliest 
when  bright  skies  bend  ten- 
derly over  her,  when  white  mists  fall  softly 
around  her,  and  the  lagoons  about  her  feet 
are  sheets  of  burnished  silver :  when  the 
red  oleanders  thrust  their  blossoms  exult- 
ingly  above  the  low,  crumbling  walls  :  when 
the  black  hoods  of  winter  felsi  are  laid  by  at 
the  traghetti,  and  gondolas  flaunt  their  white 
awnings  :  when  the  melon-boats,  with  life- 
less sails,  drift  lazily  by,  and  the  shrill  cry  of 
the  fruit  vender  floats  over  the  water :  when 
the  air  is  steeped,  permeated,  soaked  through 
and  through  with  floods  of  sunlight — quiver- 
ing, brilliant,  radiant ;  sunlight  that  blazes 
from  out  a  sky  of  pearl  and  opal  and  sap- 
phire ;  sunlight  that  drenches  every  old  pal- 
ace with  liquid  amber,  kissing  every  moulding 
awake,  and  soothing  every  shadow  to  sleep ; 
sunlight  that  caresses  and  does  not  scorch, 
that  dazzles  and  does  not  blind,  that  illu- 
mines, irradiates,  makes  glorious,  every  sail 
and  tower  and  dome,  from  the  instant  the 


great  god  of  the  east  shakes  the  dripping  Gondola 
waters  of  the  Adriatic  from  his  face  until  he  ^^-^-^ 
sinks  behind  the  purple  hills  of  Padua. 

These  mornings,  then  !  How  your  heart 
warms  and  your  blood  tingles  when  you  re- 
member that  first  one  in  Venice  —  your  first 
day  in  a  gondola  ! 

You  recall  that  you  were  leaning  upon 
your  balcony  overlooking  the  garden  when 
you  caught  sight  of  your  gondolier  ;  the  gon- 
dolier whom  Joseph,  prince  among  porters, 
had  engaged  for  you  the  night  of  your  ar- 
rival. 

On  that  first  morning  you  were  just  out  of 
your  bed.  In  fact,  you  had  hardly  been  in  it 
all  night.  You  had  fallen  asleep  in  a  whirl 
of  contending  emotions.  Half  a  dozen  times 
you  had  been  up  and  out  on  this  balcony, 
suddenly  aroused  by  the  passing  of  some 
music-boat  filling  the  night  with  a  melody 
that  seemed  a  thousand  fold  more  enchanting 
because  of  your  sudden  awakening,  —  the 
radiant  moon,  and  the  glistening  water  be- 
neath. I  say  you  were  out  again  upon  this 
same  balcony  overlooking  the  oleanders,  the 
magnolias,  and  the  palms.  You  heard  the 
tinkling  of  spoons  in  the  cups  below,  and 
knew  that  some  earlier  riser  was  taking  his 
coffee  in  the  dense  shrubbery ;  but  it  made 

9 


Gondola  no  impression  upon  you.  Your  eye  was  fixed 
■^^  on  the  beautiful  dome  of  the  Salute  oppo- 
site ;  on  the  bronze  goddess  of  the  Dogana 
waving  her  veil  in  the  soft  air;  on  the 
group  of  lighters  moored  to  the  quay,  their 
red  and  yellow  sails  aglow ;  on  the  noble 
tower  of  San  Giorgio,  sharp-cut  against  the 
.  glory  of  the  east. 

Now  you  catch  a  waving  hand  and  the 
lifting  of  a  cap  on  the  gravel  walk  below. 
"  At  what  hour  will  the  Signore  want  the 
gondola } " 

You  remember  the  face,  brown  and  sunny, 
the  eyes  laughing,  the  curve  of  the  black 
mustache,  and  how  the  wavy  short  hair 
curled  about  his  neck  and  struggled  out  from 
under  his  cap.  He  has  on  another  suit,  newly 
starched  and  snow-white ;  a  loose  shirt,  a 
wide  collar  trimmed  with  blue,  and  duck 
trousers.  Around  his  waist  is  a  wide  blue 
sash,  the  ends  hanging  to  his  knees.  About 
his  throat  is  a  loose  silk  scarf —  so  loose  that 
you  note  the  broad,  manly  chest,  the  muscles 
of  the  neck  half  concealed  by  the  cross- 
barred  boating-shirt  covering  the  brown 
skin. 

There  is  a  cheeriness,  a  breeziness,  a  spring 
about  this  young  fellow  that  inspires  you. 
As  you  look  down  into  his  face  you  feel  that 


he  is  part  of  the  air,  of  the  sunshine,  of  the  Gondola 
perfume  of  the  oleanders.  He  belongs  to  ^-^-^ 
everything  about  him,  and  everything  be- 
longs to  him.  His  costume,  his  manner,  the 
very  way  he  holds  his  hat,  show  you  at  a 
glance  that  while  for  the  time  being  he  is 
your  servant,  he  is,  in  many  things  deeply 
coveted  by  you,  greatly  your  master.  If  you 
had  his  chest  and  his  forearm,  his  sunny 
temper,  his  perfect  digestion  and  content- 
ment, you  could  easily  spare  one  half  of  your 
world's  belongings  in  payment.  When  you 
have  lived  a  month  with  him  and  have  caught 
the  spirit  of  the  man,  you  will  forget  all  about 
these  several  relations  of  servant  and  master. 
The  six  francs  a  day  that  you  pay  him  will 
seem  only  your  own  contribution  to  the  sup- 
port of  the  gondola ;  his  share  being  his  ser- 
vices. When  you  have  spent  half  the  night 
at  the  Lido,  he  swimming  at  your  side,  or 
have  rowed  all  the  way  to  Torcello,  or  have 
heard  early  mass  at  San  Rosario,  away  up 
the  Giudecca,  he  kneeling  before  you,  his  hat 
on  the  cool  pavement  next  your  own,  you 
will  begin  to  lose  sight  even  of  the  francs, 
and  want  to  own  gondola  and  all  yourself, 
that  you  may  make  him  guest  and  thus  dis- 
charge somewhat  the  ever-increasing  obliga- 
tion of  hospitality  under  which  he  places  you. 


Gondola  Soon  you  will  begin  to  realize  that  despite 
^'^y^  your  belongings — wealth  to  this  gondolier 
beyond  his  wildest  dreams  —  he  in  reality  is 
the  richer  of  the  two.  He  has  inherited  all 
this  glory  of  palace,  sea,  and  sky,  from  the 
day  of  his  birth,  and  can  liv^e  in  it  every  hour 
in  the  year,  with  no  fast-ebbing  letter-of- 
credit  nor  near-approaching  sailing  day  to 
sadden  his  soul  or  poison  the  cup  of  his 
pleasure.  When  your  fatal  day  comes  and 
your  trunk  is  packed,  he  will  stand  at  the 
water-stairs  of  the  station,  hat  in  hand,  the 
tears  in  his  eyes,  and  when  one  of  the  de- 
mons of  the  master-spirit  of  the  age  —  Hurry 
—  has  tightened  its  grip  upon  you  and  you 
are  whirled  out  and  across  the  great  iron 
bridge,  and  you  begin  once  more  the  life  that 
now  you  loathe,  even  before  you  have  reached 
Mestre  —  if  your  gondolier  is  like  my  own  gon- 
dolier, Espero  —  my  Espero  Gorgoni,  whom  I 
love  —  you  would  find  him  on  his  knees  in  the 
church  next  the  station,  whispering  a  prayer 
for  your  safe  journey  across  the  sea,  and 
spending  one  of  your  miserable  francs  for 
some  blessed  candles  to  burn  until  you 
reached  home. 

But  you  have  not  answered  your  gondolier, 
who  stands  with  upturned  eyes  on  the  grav- 
eled walk  below. 


"  At  what  hour  will  the  Signore  want  the  Gondola 
gondola?"  ^""y 

You  awake  from  your  reverie.  Now  !  as 
soon  as  you  swallow  your  coffee.  Ten  min- 
utes later  you  bear  your  weight  on  Giorgio's 
bent  elbow  and  step  into  his  boat. 

It  is  like  nothing  else  of  its  kind  your  feet 
have  ever  touched  —  so  yielding  and  yet  so 
firm ;  so  shallow  and  yet  so  stanch  ;  so  light, 
so  buoyant,  and  so  welcoming  to  peace  and 
rest  and  comfort. 

How  daintily  it  sits  the  water !  How  like 
a  knowing  swan  it  bends  its  head,  the  iron 
blade  of  the  bow,  and  glides  out  upon  the 
bosom  of  the  Grand  Canal !  You  stop  for  a 
moment,  noting  the  long,  narrow  body,  blue- 
black  and  silver  in  the  morning  light,  as 
graceful  in  its  curves  as  a  bird  ;  the  white 
awning  amidships  draped  at  sides  and  back, 
the  softly-yielding,  morocco-covered  seat,  all 
cushions  and  silk  fringes,  and  the  silken 
cords  curbing  quaint  lions  of  polished  brass. 
Beyond  and  aft  stands  your  gondolier,  with 
easy,  graceful  swing  bending  to  his  oar.  You 
stoop  down,  part  the  curtains,  and  sink  into 
the  cushions.  Suddenly  an  air  of  dignified 
importance  steals  over  you.  Never  in  your 
whole  life  have  you  been  so  magnificently 
carried  about.     Four-in-hands,  commodores' 

13 


Gondola  gigs,  landaus  in  triumphant  processions  with 
Days  white  horses  and  plumes,  seem  tame  and 
commonplace.  Here  is  a  whole  barge,  gal- 
leon, Bucentaur,  all  to  yourself  ;  noiseless, 
alert,  subservient  to  your  airiest  whim,  obedi- 
ent to  the  hghtest  touch.  You  float  between 
earth  and  sky.  You  feel  like  a  potentate  out 
for  an  airing,  housed  like  a  Rajah,  served 
like  Cleopatra,  and  rowed  like  a  Doge.  You 
command  space  and  dominate  the  elements. 

But  Giorgio  is  leaning  on  his  oar,  millions 
of  diamonds  dripping  from  its  blade. 

"  Where  now,  Signore  ,-' " 

Anywhere,  so  he  keeps  in  the  sunlight. 
To  the  Piazza,  perhaps,  and  then  around  San 
Giorgio  with  its  red  tower  and  noble  fagade, 
and  later,  when  the  shadows  lengthen,  away 
down  to  the  Public  Garden,  and  home  again 
in  the  twilight  by  way  of  the  Giudecca. 

This  gondDla-landing  of  the  Piazza,  the 
most  important  of  the  cab-stands  in  Venice, 
is  the  stepping-stone  —  a  wet  and  ooze-cov- 
ered stone  —  to  the  heart  of  the  city.  Really 
the  heart,  for  the  very  life  of  every  canal, 
campo,  and  street,  courses  through  it  in  un- 
ending flow  all  the  livelong  day  and  night, 
from  the  earliest  blush  of  dawn  to  the  earliest 
blush  of  dawn  again  ;  no  one  ever  seems  to 
go  to  bed  in  Venice.  Along  and  near  the 
14 


-rj^. 


il*^ 


edge  of  this  landing  stand  the  richest  ex-  Gondola 
amples  of  Venetian  architecture.  First,  the^^-^-^ 
Royal  Gardens  of  the  king's  palace,  with  its 
balustrade  of  marble  and  broad  flight  of 
water-steps ;  then  the  Library,  with  its  crest- 
ing of  statues,  white  against  the  sky  ;  then 
the  two  noble  columns,  the  gateless  posts  of 
the  Piazzetta,  bearing  Saint  Theodore  and  the 
Lion  of  Venice  ;  and  beyond,  past  the  edge 
of  San  Marco,  the  clock  tower  and  the 
three  great  fiagstaffs  ;  then  the  Palace  of  the 
Doges,  that  masterwork  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury ;  then  the  Prison,  with  a  glimpse  of  the 
Bridge  of  Sighs,  caught  in  mid-air  ;  then  the 
great  cimeter-sweep  of  the  Riva,  its  point  lost 
in  the  fringe  of  trees  shading  the  Public 
Garden  ;  and  then,  over  all,  as  you  look  up, 
the  noble  Campanile,  the  wonderful  bell- 
tower  of  San  Marco,  unadorned,  simple,  ma- 
jestic—  up,  up,  into  the  still  air,  its  gilded 
angel,  life-size,  with  outstretched  wings  flash- 
ing in  the  morning  sun,  a  mere  dot  of  gold 
against  the  blue. 

Before  you  touch  the  lower  steps  of  the 
water-stairs,  your  eye  falls  upon  an  old  man 
with  bared  head.  He  holds  a  long  staff 
studded  with  bad  coins,  having  a  hook  at  one 
end.  With  this  in  one  hand  he  steadies  your 
gondola,  with  the  other  he  holds  out  his  hat. 

15 


Gondola    He  is  an  aged  gondolier,  too  old  now  to  row. 

Days  Yio,  knows  you,  the  poor  fellow,  and  he  knows 
your  kind.  How  many  such  enthusiasts  has 
he  helped  to  alight !  And  he  knows  Giorgio 
too,  and  remembers  when,  like  him,  he  bent 
his  oar  with  the  best.  You  drop  a  penny 
into  his  wrinkled  hand,  catch  his  grateful 
thanks,  and  join  the  throng.  The  arcades 
under  the  Library  are  full  of  people  smoking 
and  sipping  coffee.  How  delicious  the  aroma 
and  the  pungent  smell  of  tobacco !  In  the 
shadow  of  the  Doges'  Palace  groups  idle  and 
talk  —  a  little  denser  in  spots  where  some 
artist  has  his  easel  up,  or  some  pretty,  dainty 
child  is  feeding  the  pigeons. 

A  moment  more  and  you  are  in  the  Piazza 
of  San  Marco  ;  the  grand  piazza  of  the  doges, 
with  its  thousands  of  square  feet  of  white 
pavement  blazing  in  the  sun,  framed  on  three 
sides  by  marble  palaces,  dominated  by  the 
noblest  campanile  on  the  globe,  and  enriched, 
glorified,  made  inexpressibly  precious  and 
unique  by  that  jewel  in  marble,  in  porphyry, 
in  verd  antique  and  bronze,  that  despair  of 
architects  of  to-day,  that  delight  of  the  ar- 
tists of  all  time  —  the  most  sacred,  the 
Church  of  San  Marco. 

In  and  out  this  great  quadrangle  whirl  the 
pigeons,  the  pigeons  of  Dandolo,  up  into  the 
i6 


soft  clouds,  the  light  flashing  from  their  Gondola 
throats  ;  sifting  down  in  showers  on  gilded  ^"-y^ 
cross  and  rounded  dome  ;  clinging  to  intri- 
cate carvings,  over  and  under  the  gold- 
crowned  heads  of  saints  in  stone  and  bronze  ; 
across  the  baking  plaza  in  flurries  of  gray 
and  black  ;  resting  like  a  swarm  of  flies,  only 
to  startle,  mass,  and  swirl  again.  Pets  of  the 
state,  these  birds,  since  the  siege  of  Candia, 
when  the  great  Admiral  Dandolo's  chief 
bearer  of  dispatches,  the  ancestor  of  one  of 
these  same  white-throated  doves,  brought 
the  good  news  to  Venice  the  day  the  ad- 
miral's victorious  banner  was  thrown  to  the 
breeze,  and  the  Grand  Council,  sitting  in 
state,  first  learned  the  tidings  from  the  soft 
plumage  of  its  wings. 

At  one  end,  fronting  the  church,  stand  the 
three  great  flag-poles,  the  same  you  saw  at 
the  landing,  socketed  in  bronze,  exquisitely 
modeled  and  chased,  bearing  the  banners  of 
Candia,  Cyprus,  and  the  Morea  —  kingdoms 
conquered  by  the  state  —  all  three  in  a  row, 
presenting  arms  to  the  power  that  overthrew 
them,  and  forever  dipping  their  colors  to  the 
glory  of  its  past. 

Here,  too,  in  this  noble  square,  under  your 
very  feet,  what  solemnities,  what  historic 
fetes,  what  conspiracies  !    Here  for  centuries 

17 


Gondola  has  been  held  the  priestly  pageant  of  Corpus 
Days  Christi,  aflame  with  lanterns  and  flambeaux. 
Here  eleven  centuries  ago  blind  old  Dandolo 
received  the  Crusader  chiefs  of  France. 
Here  the  splendid  nuptials  of  Francesco 
Foscari  were  celebrated  by  a  tournament, 
witnessed  by  thirty  thousand  people,  and 
lasting  ten  days.  Here  the  conspiracies  of 
Tiepolo  and  Faliero  were  crushed — Vene- 
tian against  Venetian  the  only  time  in  a 
thousand  years.  And  here  Italy  suffered  her 
crowning  indignity,  the  occupation  by  the 
French  under  the  newly-fledged  warrior  who 
unlimbered  his  cannon  at  the  door  of  the 
holy  church,  pushed  the  four  bronze  horses 
from  their  pedestals  over  the  sacred  entrance 
—  the  horses  of  Constantino,  wrought  by 
Lysippus  the  Greek, —  despoiled  the  noble 
church  of  its  silver  lamps,  robbed  the  ancient 
column  of  its  winged  lion,  and  then,  after  a 
campaign  unprecedented  in  its  brilliancy,  un- 
exampled in  the  humiliation  and  degradation 
it  entailed  upon  a  people  who  for  ten  cen- 
turies had  known  no  power  outside  of  Venice, 
planted  in  the  centre  of  this  same  noble 
square,  with  an  irony  as  bitter  as  it  was 
cruel,  the  "  Tree  of  Liberty,"  at  which  was 
burned,  on  the  4th  of  June,  1797,  the  insig- 
nia of  the  ancient  republic. 
18 


And  yet,  notwithstanding  all  her  vicissi-  Gondola 
tudes,  the  Venice  of  to-day  is  still  the  Venice  ^^y^ 
of  her  glorious  past,  the  Venice  of  Dandolo, 
Foscari,  and  Faliero.  The  actors  are  long 
since  dead,  but  the  stage-setting  is  the  same ; 
the  same  sun,  the  same  air,  the  same  sky 
over  all.  The  beautiful  dome  of  the  Salute 
still  dominates  the  Grand  Canal.  The  great 
plaza  is  still  perfect  in  all  its  proportions  and 
in  all  that  made  up  its  beauty  and  splendor. 
The  Campanile  still  raises  its  head,  glistening 
in  the  morning  light.  High  over  all  still 
flash  and  swoop  the  pigeons  of  Venice  —  the 
pigeons  of  Dandolo  —  now  black  as  cinders, 
now  flakes  of  gold  in  the  yellow  light.  The 
doors  of  the  sacred  church  are  still  open; 
the  people  pass  in  and  out.  Under  the 
marble  arcades,  where  the  soldiers  of  the 
army  of  France  stacked  their  arms,  to-day 
sit  hundreds  of  free  Venetians,  with  their 
wives  and  sweethearts,  sipping  their  ices  and 
coffee  ;  the  great  orchestra,  the  king's  band, 
filling  the  air  with  its  music. 

When  you  ask  what  magician  has  wrought 
this  change,  let  the  old  guide  answer  as  once 
he  answered  me  when,  crossing  the  Piazza 
and  uncovering  his  head,  he  pointed  to  a 
stone  and  said,  in  his  soft  Italian  :  — 

Here,  Signore,  —  just  here,  where  the  great 

19 


Gondola  Napoleon  burnt  our  flag,  —  the  noble  repub- 
-^■^  lie  of  our  fathers,  under  our  good  King  and 
his  royal  spouse,  was  born  anew." 

But  you  cannot  stay.  You  will  return  and 
study  the  Piazza  to-morrow  ;  not  now.  The 
air  intoxicates  you.  The  sunlight  is  in  your 
blood ;  your  cheeks  burn ;  you  look  out  and 
over  the  Grand  Canal  —  molten  silver  in  the 
shimmer  of  the  morning.  Below,  near  the 
Public  Garden,  beyond  San  Giorgio,  like  a 
cluster  of  butterflies,  hovers  a  fleet  of  Chiog- 
gia  fishing-boats,  becalmed  in  the  channel. 
Off  the  Riva,  near  Danieli's,  lies  the  Trieste 
steamer,  just  arrived,  a  swarm  of  gondolas 
and  barcos  about  her  landing-ladders ;  the 
yellow  smoke  of  her  funnel  drifting  lazily. 
Farther  away,  on  the  golden  ball  of  the 
Dogana,  the  bronze  Goddess  of  the  Wind 
poises  light  as  air,  her  face  aflame,  her  whirl- 
ing sail  bent  with  the  passing  breeze. 

You  resolve  to  stop  no  more ;  only  to  float, 
loll  on  your  cushions,  watch  the  gulls  circle, 
and  the  slow  sweep  of  the  oars  of  the  lug- 
gers. You  would  throw  open  —  wide  open 
—  the  great  swinging  gates  of  your  soul. 
You  not  only  would  enjoy,  you  would  absorb, 
drink  in,  fill  yourself  to  the  brim. 

For  hours  you  drift  about.  There  is  plenty 
of  time  to-morrow  for  the  churches  and  pal- 
20 


aces  and  caffes.     To-day  you  want  only  the  Gondola 
salt  air  in  your  face,  the  splash  and  gurgle  of     "'y^ 
the  water  at  the  bow,  and  the  low  song  that 
Giorgio  sings  to  himself  as  he  bends  to  his 
blade. 

Soon  you  dart  into  a  cool  canal,  skirt  along 
an  old  wall,  water  stained  and  worn,  and  rest 
at  a  low  step.  Giorgio  springs  out,  twists 
a  cord  around  an  iron  ring,  and  disappears 
through  an  archway  framing  a  garden  abloom 
with  flowering  vines. 

It  is  high  noon.  Now  for  your  midday 
luncheon ! 

You  have  had  all  sorts  of  breakfasts  offered 
you  in  your  wanderings :  On  white-winged 
yachts,  with  the  decks  scoured  clean,  the 
brass  glistening,  the  awning  overhead.  In 
the  wilderness,  lying  on  balsam  boughs,  the 
smell  of  the  bacon  and  crisping  trout  filling 
the  bark  slant,  the  blue  smoke  wreathing  the 
tall  pines.  In  the  gardens  of  Sunny  Spain  — 
one  you  remember  at  Granada,  hugging  the 
great  wall  of  the  Alhambra  —  you  see  the 
table  now  with  its  heap  of  fruit  and  flowers, 
and  can  hear  the  guitar  of  the  gypsy  behind 
the  pomegranate  Along  the  shore  of  the 
beautiful  bay  of  Matanzas,  where  the  hidalgo 
who  had  watched  you  paint  swept  down 
in   his   volante   and   carried   you   off   to  his 


Gondola  oranges  and  omelette.  At  St.  Cloud,  along 
Days  ^]^g  Seine,  with  the  noiseless  waiter  in  the 
seedy  dress  suit  and  necktie  of  the  night 
before.  But  the  filet  and  melon  !  Yes,  you 
would  go  again.  I  say  you  have  had  all  sorts 
of  breakfasts  out  of  doors  in  your  time,  but 
never  yet  in  a  gondola. 

A  few  minutes  later  Giorgio  pushes  aside 
the  vines.  He  carries  a  basket  covered  with 
a  white  cloth.  This  he  lays  at  your  feet  on 
the  floor  of  the  boat.  You  catch  sight  of 
the  top  of  a  siphon  and  a  flagon  of  wine  :  do 
not  hurry,  wait  till  he  serves  it.  But  not 
here,  where  anybody  might  come ;  farther 
down,  where  the  oleanders  hang  over  the 
wall,  their  blossoms  in  the  water,  and  where 
the  air  blows  cool  between  the  overhanging 
palaces. 

Later  Giorgio  draws  all  the  curtains  except 
the  side  next  the  oleanders,  steps  aft  and 
fetches  a  board,  which  he  rests  on  the  little 
side  seats  in  front  of  your  lounging-cushions. 
On  this  board  he  spreads  the  cloth,  and  then 
the  seltzer  and  Chianti,  the  big  glass  of  pow- 
dered ice  and  the  little  hard  Venetian  rolls. 
(By  the  bye,  do  you  know  that  there  is  only 
one  form  of  primitive  roll,  the  world  over  T) 
Then  come  the  cheese,  the  Gorgonzola  — 
active,  alert  Gorgonzola,  all  green  spots  — 

22 


wrapped  in  a  leaf ;  a  rough-jacketed  melon,  Gondola 
with  some  figs  and  peaches.  Last  of  all,  ^'^y^ 
away  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  basket,  there 
is  a  dish  of  macaroni  garnished  with  peppers. 
You  do  not  want  any  meat.  If  you  did  you 
would  not  get  it.  Some  time  when  you  are 
out  on  the  canal,  or  up  the  Giudecca,  you 
might  get  a  fish  freshly  broiled  from  a  pass- 
ing cook-boat  serving  the  watermen  —  a  sort 
of  floating  kitchen  for  those  who  are  too 
poor  for  a  fire  of  their  own  —  but  never 
meat. 

Giorgio  serves  you  as  daintily  as  would  a 
woman ;  unfolding  the  cheese,  splitting  the 
rolls,  parting  the  melon  into  crescents,  fleck- 
ing off  each  seed  with  his  knife  :  and  last, 
the  coffee  from  the  little  copper  coffee-pot, 
and  the  thin  cakes  of  sugar,  in  the  thick, 
unbreakable,  dumpy  little  cups. 

There  are  no  courses  in  this  repast.  You 
light  a  cigarette  with  your  first  mouthful  and 
smoke  straight  through :  it  is  that  kind  of  a 
breakfast. 

Then  you  spread  yourself  over  space,  flat 
on  your  back,  the  smoke  curling  out  through 
the  half-drawn  curtains.  Soon  your  gondo- 
lier gathers  up  the  fragments,  half  a  melon 
and  the  rest, —  there  is  always  enough  for 
two, —  moves  aft,  and  you  hear  the  clink  of 

2X 


Gondola  the  glass  and  the  swish  of  the  siphon.    Later 
Days       yQ^  note  the  closely-eaten  crescents  floating 
by,  and  the  empty  leaf.     Giorgio  was  hungry 
too. 

But  the  garden  !  —  there  is  time  for  that. 
You  soon  discover  that  it  is  unlike  any  other 
you  know.  There  are  no  flower-beds  and 
gravel  walks,  and  no  brick  fountains  with  the 
scantily  dressed  cast-iron  boy  struggling  with 
the  green-painted  dolphin,  the  water  spurting 
from  its  open  mouth.  There  is  water,  of 
course,  but  it  is  down  a  deep  well  with  a 
great  coping  of  marble,  encircled  by  exquisite 
carvings  and  mellow  with  mould  ;  and  there 
are  low  trellises  of  grapes,  and  a  tangle  of 
climbing  roses  half  concealing  a  weather- 
stained  Cupid  with  a  broken  arm.  And  there 
is  an  old-fashioned  sun-dial,  and  sweet  smell- 
ing box  cut  into  fantastic  shapes,  and  a  nest 
of  an  arbor  so  thickly  matted  with  leaves  and 
interlaced  branches  that  you  think  of  your 
Dulcinea  at  once.  And  there  are  marble 
benches  and  stone  steps,  and  at  the  farther 
end  an  old  rusty  gate  through  which  Giorgio 
brought  the  luncheon. 

It  is  all  so  new  to  3^ou,  and  so  cool  and 

restful !     For  the  first  time   you   begin   to 

realize  that  you  are  breathing  the  air  of  a 

City  of  Silence.     No  hum  of  busy  loom,  no 

24 


tramp  of  horse  or  rumble  of  wheel,  no  jar  or  Gondola 
shock ;  only  the  voices  that  come  over  the      y^ 
water,  and   the  plash  of  the  ripples  as  you 
pass.     But  the  day  is  waning ;  into  the  sun- 
light once  more. 

Giorgio  is  fast  asleep  ;  his  arm  across  his 
face,  his  great  broad  chest  bared  to  the  sky. 

"  Si,  Signore  !  " 

He  is  up  in  an  instant,  rubbing  the  sleep 
from  his  eyes,  catching  his  oar  as  he  springs. 

You  glide  in  and  out  again,  under  marble 
bridges  thronged  with  people  ;  along  quays 
lined  with  boats ;  by  caffe,  church,  and  pal- 
ace, and  so  on  to  the  broad  water  of  the 
Public  Garden. 

But  you  do  not  land  ;  some  other  day  for 
that.  You  want  the  row  back  up  the  canal, 
with  the  glory  of  the  setting  sun  in  your  face. 
Suddenly,  as  you  turn,  the  sun  is  shut  out : 
it  is  the  great  warship  Stromboli,  lying  at 
anchor  off  the  garden  wall ;  huge,  solid  as 
a  fort,  fine-lined  as  a  yacht,  with  exquisite 
detail  of  rail,  mast,  yard-arms,  and  gun  mount- 
ings, the  light  flashing  from  her  polished 
brasses. 

In  a  moment  you  are  under  her  stern, 
and  beyond,  skirting  the  old  shipyard  with 
the  curious  arch,  —  the  one  Whistler  etched, 
—  sheering  to  avoid  the  little  steamers  puf- 

25 


Gondola  fing  with  modern  pride,  their  noses  high  in 
Days  g^jj.  g|-  |-]-^g  gondolas  ;  past  the  long  quay  of 
the  Riva,  where  the  torpedo-boats  lie  tethered 
in  a  row,  like  swift  horses  eager  for  a  dash  ; 
past  the  fruit-boats  dropping  their  sails  for  a 
short  cut  to  the  market  next  the  Rialto ;  past 
the  long,  low,  ugly  bath-house  anchored  off 
the  Dogana ;  past  the  wonderful,  the  match- 
less, the  never-to-be-unloved  or  forgotten,  the 
most  blessed,  the  Santa  Maria  delta  Salute. 

Oh !  this  drift  back,  square  in  the  face  of 
the  royal  sun,  attended  by  all  the  pomp  and 
glory  of  a  departing  day  !  What  shall  be  said 
of  this  reveling,  rioting,  dominant  god  of  the 
west,  clothed  in  purple  and  fine  gold ;  strew- 
ing his  path  with  rose-leaves  thrown  broad- 
cast on  azure  fields  ;  rolling  on  beds  of  violet ; 
saturated,  steeped,  drunken  with  color  ;  every 
steeple,  tower,  and  dome  ablaze ;  the  whole 
world  on  tiptoe,  kissing  its  hands  good- 
night ! 

Giorgio  loves  it,  too.  His  cap  is  off,  lying 
on  the  narrow  deck ;  his  cravat  loosened,  his 
white  shirt,  as  he  turns  up  the  Giudecca, 
flashing  like  burning  gold. 

Somehow  you  cannot  sit   and   take  your 

ease  in  the  fullness   of  all  this  beauty  and 

grandeur.     You   spring  to  your  feet.     You 

must  see  behind  and  on  both  sides,  your  eye 

26 


roving  eagerly  away  out  to  the  lagoon  beyond  Gondola 
the  great  flour-mill  and  the  gardens.  Days 

Suddenly  a  delicate  violet  light  falls  about 
you ;  the  lines  of  palaces  grow  purple ;  the 
water  is  dulled  to  a  soft  gray,  broken  by 
long,  undulating  waves  of  blue ;  the  hulls  of 
the  fishing-boats  become  inky  black,  their 
listless  sails  deepening  in  the  falling  shadows. 
Only  the  little  cupola  high  up  on  the  dome 
of  the  Redentore  still  burns  pink  and  gold. 
Then  it  fades  and  is  gone.    The  day  is  done! 

27 


THE    RIVA 

jHE  afternoon  hours  are  always 
the  best.  In  the  morning  the 
great  sweep  of  dazzling  pave- 
ment is  a  blaze  of  white  light, 
spotted  with  moving  dots  of 
color.  These  dots  carry  gay-colored  para- 
sols and  fans,  or  shield  their  e3^es  with 
aprons,  hugging,  as  they  scurry  along,  the 
half-shadows  of  a  bridge-rail  or  caffe  awning. 
Here  and  there,  farther  down  along  the  Riva, 
are  larger  dots  —  fruit-sellers  crouching  un- 
der huge  umbrellas,  or  groups  of  gondoliers 
under  improvised  awnings  of  sailcloth  and 
boat  oars.  Once  in  a  while  one  of  these 
water-cabmen  darts  out  from  his  shelter  like 
an  old  spider,  waylays  a  bright  fly  as  she 
hurries  past,  and  carries  her  off  bodily  to  his 
gondola.  Should  she  escape  he  crawls  back 
again  lazily  and  is  merged  once  more  in 
the  larger  dot.  In  the  noonday  glare  even 
these  disappear ;  the  fruit-sellers  seeking 
some  shaded  calle,  the  gondoliers  the  cool 
coverings  of  their  boats. 

Now  that  the  Sun  God  has  chosen  to  hide 
his  face  behind  the  trees  of  the  King's  Gar- 
den, this  blaze  of  white  is  toned  to  a  cool 
28 


gray.  Only  San  Giorgio's  tower  across  the  Along 
Grand  Canal  is  aflame,  and  that  but  half  way  ^^'^  ^^^'"^ 
down  its  bright  red  length.  The  people,  too, 
who  have  been  all  day  behind  closed  blinds 
and  doors,  are  astir.  The  awnings  of  the 
caffes  are  thrown  back  and  the  windows  of 
the  balconies  opened.  The  waiters  bring  out 
little  tables,  arranging  the  chairs  in  rows  like 
those  in  a  concert  hall.  The  boatmen  who 
have  been  asleep  under  cool  bridges,  curled 
up  on  the  decks  of  their  boats,  stretch 
themselves  awake,  rubbing  their  eyes.  The 
churches  swing  back  their  huge  doors  — 
even  the  red  curtains  of  the  CJiiesa  della 
Pietct  are  caught  to  one  side,  so  that  you  can 
see  the  sickly  yellow  glow  of  the  candles  far 
back  on  the  altars  and  smell  the  incense  as 
you  pasSo 

Soon  the  current  from  away  up  near  the 
Piazza  begins  to  flow  down  towards  the 
Public  Garden,  which  lies  at  the  end  of 
this  Grand  Promenade  of  Venice.  Priests 
come,  and  students  ;  sailors  on  a  half  day's 
leave  ;  stevedores  from  the  salt  warehouses  ; 
fishermen ;  peddlers,  with  knickknacks  and 
sweetmeats  ;  throngs  from  the  hotels  ;  and 
slender,  graceful  Venetians,  out  for  their 
afternoon  stroll  in  twos  and  threes,  with 
high  combs  and  gay  shawls,  worn  as  a  Span- 

29 


Along      ish  Donna  would  her  mantilla — bewitching 

the  Riva  creatures  in   cool  muslin   dresses  and  wide 

sashes  of  silk,  with  restless  butterfly  fans,  and 

restless,  wicked  eyes  too,  that  flash  and  coax 

as  they  saunter  along. 

Watch  those  officers  wheel  and  turn.  See 
how  they  laugh  when  they  meet.  What  con- 
fidences under  mustachios  and  fans  !  Half 
an  hour  from  now  you  will  find  the  four  at 
Florian's,  as  happy  over  a  little  cherry  juice 
and  water  as  if  it  were  the  dryest  of  all  the 
Extras.  Later  on,  away  out  beyond  San 
Giorgio,  four  cigarettes  could  light  for  you 
their  happy  faces,  the  low  plash  of  their  gon- 
dolier's oar  keeping  time  to  the  soft  notes  of 
a  guitar. 

Yes,  one  must  know  the  Riva  in  the  after- 
noon. I  know  it  every  hour  in  the  day  ; 
though  I  love  it  most  in  the  cool  of  its  shad- 
ows. And  I  know  every  caffe,  church,  and 
palace  along  its  whole  length,  from  the  Molo 
to  the  garden.  And  I  know  the  bridges,  too  ; 
best  of  all  the  one  below  the  Arsenal,  the 
Veneta  Marina,  and  the  one  you  cross  before 
reaching  the  little  church  that  stands  aside 
as  if  to  let  you  pass,  and  the  queer-shaped 
Piazzetta  beyond,  with  the  flag-pole  and  m.ar- 
ble  balustrade.  And  I  know  that  old  wine- 
shop where  the  chairs  and  tables  are  drawn 
30 


close  up  to  the  very  bridge  itself,  its  awnings  Alon^ 
half  over  the  last  step.  ^^^^  ^'^'^^ 

My  own  gondolier,  Espero  —  bless  his 
sunny  face  !  —  knows  the  owner  of  this  shop 
and  has  known  her  for  years  ;  a  great,  superb 
creature,  with  eyes  that  flash  and  smoulder 
under  heaps  of  tangled  black  hair.  He  first 
presented  me  to  this  grand  duchess  of  the 
Riva  years  ago,  when  I  wanted  a  dish  of  mac- 
aroni browned  on  a  shallow  plate.  When- 
ever I  turn  in  now  out  of  the  heat  for  a 
glass  of  crushed  ice  and  orange  juice,  she 
mentions  the  fact  and  points  with  pride  to 
the  old  earthen  platter.  It  is  nearly  burnt 
through  with  my  many  toastings. 

But  the  bridge  is  my  delight ;  the  arch  un- 
derneath is  so  cool,  and  I  have  darted  under 
it  so  often  for  luncheon  and  half  an  hour's 
siesta.  On  these  occasions  the  old  burnt- 
bottomed  dish  is  brought  to  my  gondola  siz- 
zling hot,  with  coffee  and  rolls,  and  sometimes 
a  bit  of  broiled  fish  as  an  extra  touch. 

This  bridge  has  always  been  the  open-air 
club-room  of  the  entire  neighborhood,  — 
everybody  who  has  any  lounging  to  do  is  a 
life  member.  All  day  long  its  Jiabitiies  hang 
over  it,  gazing  listlessly  out  upon  the  la- 
goon ;  singly,  in  bunches,  in  swarms  when 
the  fish-boats  round  in  from  Chioggia,  or  a 

31 


Along      new  P.  and  O.  steamer  arrives.    Its  hand-rail 
the  Riva  Qf  bj-Qad  marble  is  polished  smooth  by  the 
arms  and  legs  and  blue  overalls  of  two  cen- 
turies. 

There  is  also  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine 
living  near  this  bridge,  whom  you  might  as 
well  know  before  I  take  another  step  along 
the  Riva.  He  is  attached  to  my  suite.  I 
have  a  large  following  quite  of  his  kind,  scat- 
tered all  over  Venice.  As  I  am  on  my  way, 
in  this  chapter,  to  the  Public  Garden,  and 
can  never  get  past  this  his  favorite  haunt 
without  his  cheer  and  laugh  to  greet  me ;  so 
I  cannot,  if  I  would,  avoid  bringing  him  in 
now,  knowing  full  well  that  he  would  bring 
himself  in  and  unannounced  whenever  it 
should  please  his  Excellency  so  to  do.  He 
is  a  happy-hearted,  devil-may-care  young  fel- 
low, who  haunts  this  particular  vicinity,  and 
who  has  his  bed  and  board  wherever,  at  the 
moment,  he  may  happen  to  be.  The  bed 
problem  never  troubles  him  ;  a  bit  of  sail- 
cloth under  the  shadow  of  the  hand-rail  will 
do,  or  a  straw  mat  behind  the  angle  of  a 
wall,  or  even  what  shade  I  can  spare  from  my 
own  white  umbrella,  with  the  hard  marble 
flags  for  feathers.  The  item  of  board  is  a 
trifle,  yet  only  a  trifle,  more  serious.  It  may 
be  a  fragment  of  polenta,  or  a  couple  of  figs, 
32 


or  only  a  drink  from  the  copper  bucket  oi  Along 
some   passing  girl.     Quantity,    quality,   and  ^^^  ^^'^^ 
time  of  serving  are  immaterial  to  him.  There 
will  be  something  to  eat  before  night,  and  it 
always  comes.     One  of  the  pleasures  of  the 
neighborhood  is  to  share  with  him  a  bite. 

This  beggar,  tramp,  lasagnone  —  ragged, 
barefooted,  and  sunbrowned,  would  send  a 
flutter  through  the  hearts  of  a  matinee  full 
of  pretty  girls,  could  he  step  to  the  footlights 
just  as  he  is,  and  with  his  superb  baritone 
voice  ring  out  one  of  his  own  native  songs. 
Lying  as  he  does  now  under  my  umbrella,  his 
broad  chest  burnt  almost  black,  the  curls  glis- 
tening about  his  forehead,  his  well-trimmed 
mustache  curving  around  a  mouth  half  open, 
shading  a  row  of  teeth  white  as  milk,  his 
Leporello  hat  thrown  aside,  a  broad  red 
sash  girding  his  waist,  the  fine  muscles  of  his 
thighs  filling  his  overalls,  these  same  pretty 
girls  might  perhaps  only  draw  their  skirts 
aside  as  they  passed  :  environment  plays 
such  curious  tricks. 

This  friend  of  mine,  this  royal  pauper, 
Luigi,  never  in  the  recollection  of  any  mortal 
man  or  woman  was  known  to  do  a  stroke  of 
work.  He  lives  somewhere  up  a  crooked 
canal,  with  an  old  mother  who  adores  him  — 
as,  in  fact,  does  every  other  woman  he  knows, 

2>Z 


Along  young  or  old  —  and  whose  needle  keeps  to- 
the  Riva  gather  the  rags  that  only  accentuate  more 
clearly  the  superb  lines  of  his  figure.  And 
yet  one  cannot  call  him  a  burden  on  society. 
On  the  contrary,  Luigi  has  especial  duties 
which  he  never  neglects.  Every  morning  at 
sunrise  he  is  out  on  the  bridge  watching  the 
Chioggia  boats  as  they  beat  up  past  the  Gar- 
den trying  to  make  the  red  buoy  in  the  chan- 
nel behind  San  Giorgio,  and  enlarging  on 
their  seagoing  qualities  to  an  admiring  group 
of  bystanders.  At  noon  he  is  plumped  down 
in  the  midst  of  a  bevy  of  wives  and  girls, 
flat  on  the  pavement,  his  back  against  a  door- 
way in  some  courtyard.  The  wives  mend 
and  patch,  the  girls  string  beads,  and  the 
children  play  around  on  the  marble  flagging, 
Luigi  monopolizing  all  the  talk  and  conduct- 
ing all  the  gayety,  the  whole  coterie  listening. 
He  makes  love,  and  chaffs,  and  sings,  and 
weaves  romances,  until  the  inquisitive  sun 
peeps  into  the  patio  ;  then  he  is  up  and  out 
on  the  bridge  again,  and  so  down  the  Riva, 
with  the  grace  of  an  Apollo  and  the  air  of  a 
thoroughbred. 

When  I  think  of  all  the  sour  tempers  in 

the  world,  all  the  people  with  weak  backs  and 

chests  and  limbs,  all  the  dyspeptics,  all  the 

bad  livers  and  worse    hearts,  all  the  mean 

34 


people  and  the  sordid,  all  those  who  pose  3.s  A/ong 
philanthropists,  professing  to  ooze  sunshine  ^^"^^ 
and  happiness  from  their  very  pores  ;  all  the 
down-trodden  and  the  economical  ones ;  all 
those  on  half  pay  and  no  work,  and  those  on 
full  pay  and  too  little  —  and  then  look  at  this 
magnificent  condensation  of  bone,  muscle, 
and  sinew ;  this  Greek  god  of  a  tramp,  un- 
selfish, good-tempered,  sunny-hearted,  want- 
ing nothing,  having  everything,  envying  no- 
body, happy  as  a  lark,  one  continuous  song 
all  the  day  long ;  ready  to  catch  a  line,  to 
mind  a  child,  to  carry  a  pail  of  water  for  any 
old  woman,  from  the  fountain  in  the  Campo 
near  by  to  the  top  of  any  house,  no  matter 
how  high — when,  I  say,  I  think  of  this 
prince  of  good  fellows  leading  his  Adam- 
before-the-fall  sort  of  existence,  I  seriously 
consider  the  advisability  of  my  pensioning 
him  for  the  remainder  of  his  life  on  one  lira 
a  day,  a  fabulous  sum  to  him,  merely  to  be 
sure  that  nothing  in  the  future  will  ever  spoil 
his  temper  and  so  rob  me  of  the  ecstasy  of 
knowing  and  of  being  always  able  to  find  one 
supremely  happy  human  creature  on  this 
earth. 

But,  as  I  have  said,  I  am  on  my  way  to  the 
Public  Garden.  Everybody  else  is  going  too. 
Step  to  the  marble  balustrade  of  this  three- 

35 


Along  cornered  Piazzetta  and  see  if  the  prows  of 
the  Rtva  ^.j^g  gondolas  are  not  all  pointed  that  way.  I 
am  afoot,  have  left  the  Riva  and  am  strolling 
down  the  Via  Garibaldi,  the  widest  street  in 
Venice.  There  are  no  palaces  here,  only  a 
double  row  of  shops,  their  upper  windows 
and  balconies  festooned  with  drying  clothes, 
their  doors  choked  with  piles  of  fruit  and 
merchandise.  A  little  farther  down  is  a 
marble  bridge,  and  then  the  arching  trees  of 
the  biggest  and  breeziest  sweep  of  green  in 
all  Venice  —  the  Giar'dini  Piibblici  —  many 
acres  in  extent,  bounded  by  a  great  wall  sur- 
mounted by  a  marble  balustrade  more  than  a 
mile  in  length,  and  thickly  planted  with  syca- 
mores and  flowering  shrubs.  Its  water  front 
commands  the  best  view  of  the  glory  of  a 
Venetian  sunset. 

This  garden,  for  Venice,  is  really  a  very 
modern  kind  of  public  garden,  after  all.  It 
was  built  in  the  beginning  of  the  present 
century,  about  1810,  when  the  young  Corsi- 
can  directed  one  Giovanni  Antonio  Selva  to 
demolish  a  group  of  monasteries  incumber- 
ing the  ground  and  from  their  debris  to  con- 
struct the  foundations  of  this  noble  park, 
with  its  sea-wall,  landings,  and  triumphal 
gate. 

Whenever  I  stretch  myself  out  under  the 
36 


grateful   shade   of    these    splendid   trees,    I  Along 
always  forgive  the  Corsican  for  robbing  San  ^^^^  R^'^a 
Marco  of  its  bronze  horses  and  for  riding  his 
own   up  the  incline  of   the  Campanile,  and 
even  for  leveling  the  monasteries. 

And  the  Venetians  of  to-day  are  grateful 
too,  however  much  their  ancestors  may  have 
reviled  the  conqueror  for  his  vandalism.  All 
over  its  graveled  walks  you  will  find  them 
lolling  on  the  benches,  grouped  about  the 
pretty  caffes,  taking  their  coffee  or  eating 
ices  ;  leaning  by  the  hour  over  the  balustrade 
and  watching  the  boats  and  little  steamers. 
The  children  romp  and  play,  the  candy  man 
and  the  sellers  of  sweet  cakes  ply  their  trade, 
and  the  vender  with  cool  drinks  stands  over 
his  curious  four-legged  tray,  studded  with 
bits  of  brass  and  old  coins,  and  calls  out  his 
several  mixtures.  The  ofificers  are  here,  too, 
twisting  their  mustachios  and  fingering  their 
cigarettes ;  fine  ladies  saunter  along,  pre- 
ceded by  their  babies,  half  smothered  in  lace 
and  borne  on  pillows  in  the  arms  of  Italian 
peasants  with  red  cap-ribbons  touching  the 
ground  ;  and  barefooted,  frowzy-headed  girls 
from  the  rookeries  behind  the  Arsenal  idle 
about,  four  or  five  abreast,  their  arms  locked, 
mocking  the  sailors  and  filling  the  air  with 
laughter. 

37 


Along  Then  there  are  a  menagerie,  or  rather 
the  Rtva  gome  wire-fenced  paddocks  filled  with  kan- 
garoos and  rabbits,  and  an  aviary  of  birds, 
and  a  big  casino  where  the  band  plays,  and 
where  for  half  a  lira,  some  ten  cents,  you 
can  see  a  variety  performance  without  the 
variety,  and  hear  these  light-hearted  people 
laugh  to  their  heart's  content. 

And  last  of  all,  away  down  at  one  end, 
near  the  wall  fronting  the  church  of  San 
Giuseppe,  there  lives  in  miserable  solitude 
the  horse  —  the  only  horse  in  Venice.  He  is 
not  always  the  same  horse.  A  few  years 
ago,  when  I  first  knew  him,  he  was  a  forlorn, 
unkempt,  lonely-looking  quadruped  of  a  dark 
brown  color,  and  with  a  threadbare  tail. 
When  I  saw  him  last,  within  the  year,  he 
was  a  hand  higher,  white,  and  wore  a  caudal 
appendage  with  a  pronounced  bang.  Still 
he  is  the  same  horse  — Venice  never  affords 
but  one.  When  not  at  work  (he  gathered 
leaves  in  the  old  days  ;  now  I  am  ashamed 
to  say  he  operates  a  lawn-mower  as  well),  he 
leans  his  poor  old  tired  head  listlessly  over 
the  rail,  refusing  the  cakes  the  children  offer 
him.  At  these  times  he  will  ruminate  by  the 
hour  over  his  unhappy  lot.  When  the  winter 
comes,  and  there  are  no  more  leaves  to  rake, 
no  gravel  to  haul,  nor  grass  to  mow,  they 
38 


lead  him  down  to  the  gate  opening  on  the  A/on^ 
little  side  canal  and  push  him  aboard  a  flat  ^^^^  ^^'^^ 
scow,  and  so  on  up  the  Grand  Canal  and 
across  the  lagoon  to  Mestre.  As  he  passes 
along,  looking  helplessly  from  side  to  side, 
the  gondoliers  revile  him  and  the  children 
jeer  at  him,  and  those  on  the  little  steam- 
boats pelt  him  with  peach  pits,  cigar  ends, 
and  bits  of  broken  coal.  Poor  old  Rosinante, 
there  is  no  page  in  the  history  of  Venice 
which  your  ancestors  helped  glorify  ! 

There  are  two  landings  along  the  front  of 
the  garden,  —  one  below  the  west  corner,  up 
a  narrow  canal,  and  the  other  midway  of  the 
long  sea-wall,  where  all  the  gondolas  load  and 
unload.  You  know  this  last  landing  at  once. 
Ziem  has  painted  it  over  and  over  again  for 
a  score  of  years  or  more,  and  this  master  of 
color  is  still  at  it.  With  him  it  is  a  strip  of 
brilliant  red,  a  background  of  autumn  foliage, 
and  a  creamy  flight  of  steps  running  down  to 
a  sea  of  deepest  ultramarine.  There  is  gen- 
erally a  mass  of  fishing-boats,  too,  in  brilliant 
colorings,  moored  to  the  wall,  and  a  black 
gondola  for  a  centre  dark. 

When  you  row  up  to  this  landing  to-day, 
you  are  surprised  to  find  it  all  sunshine  and 
glitter.  The  trees  are  fresh  and  crisp,  the 
marble    is    dazzling    white,    and    the    water 

39 


Along      sparkling  and  limpid  with  gray-green  tints. 

the  Rtva  g^^  please  do  not  criticise  Ziem.  You  do 
not  see  it  his  way,  but  that  is  not  his  fault. 
Venice  is  a  hundred  different  Venices  to  as 
many  different  painters.  If  it  were  not  so, 
you  would  not  be  here  to-day,  nor  love  it  as 
you  do.  Besides,  when  you  think  it  all  over, 
you  will  admit  that  Ziem,  of  all  living  paint- 
ers, has  best  rendered  its  sensuous,  color- 
soaked  side.  And  yet,  when  you  land  you 
wonder  why  the  colorist  did  not  bring  his 
easel  closer  and  give  you  a  nearer  view  of 
this  superb  water-landing,  with  the  crowds 
of  gayly  dressed  people,  swarms  of  gondolas, 
officers,  fine  ladies,  boatmen,  and  the  hun- 
dred  other  phases  of  Venetian  life. 

But  I  hear  Espero's  voice  out  on  the  broad 
water.  Now  I  catch  the  sunlight  on  his 
white  shirt  and  blue  sash.  He  is  standing 
erect,  his  whole  body  swaying  with  that  long, 
graceful,  sweeping  stroke  which  is  the  envy 
of  the  young  gondoliers  and  the  despair  of 
the  old  ;  Espero,  as  you  know,  has  been  twice 
winner  in  the  gondola  races.  He  sees  my 
signal,  runs  his  bow  close  in,  and  the  next 
instant  we  are  swinging  back  up  the  Grand 
Canal,  skirting  the  old  boatyard  and  the 
edge  of  the  Piazzetta.  A  puff  of  smoke  from 
the  man-of-war  ahead,  and  the  roll  of  the 
40 


sunset  gun  booms  over  the  water.  Btfore  Along 
the  echoes  have  fairly  died  away,  a  long  s'm-^^^'^  -^^^"^^ 
uous  snake  of  employees  —  there  are  some 
seven  thousand  of  them  —  crawls  from  out 
the  arsenal  gates,  curves  over  the  arsenal 
bridge,  and  heads  up  the  Riva.  On  we  go, 
abreast  of  the  crowd,  past  the  landing  wharf 
of  the  little  steamers,  past  the  rear  porches  of 
the  queer  caffes,  past  the  man-of-war,  and  a 
moment  later  are  off  the  wine-shop  and  my 
bridge.  I  part  the  curtains,  and  from  my  - 
cushions  can  see  the  Duchess  standing  in 
the  doorway,  her  arms  akimbo,  with  all  the 
awnings  rolled  back  tight  for  the  night.  The 
bridge  itself  is  smothered  in  a  swarm  of 
human  flies,  most  of  them  bareheaded.  As 
we  sheer  closer,  one  more  ragged  than  the 
rest  springs  up  and  waves  his  hat.  Then 
comes  the  refrain  of  that  loveliest  of  all  the 
Venetian  boat  songs  :  — 

"  yammo,  jammo  neoppa,  jammo  ja^"" 

It  is  Luigi,  bidding  me  good-night. 

41 


THE    PIAZZA   OF  SAN   MARCO 

^HERE  is  but  one  piazza  in  the 
world.  There  may  be  other 
splendid  courts  and  squares, 
magnificent  breathing  spaces 
for  the  people,  enriched  by 
mosque  and  palace,  bordered  by  wide-spread- 
ing trees,  and  adorned  by  noble  statues.  You 
know,  of  course,  every  slant  of  sunlight  over 
the  plaza  of  the  Hippodrome,  in  Constanti- 
nople, with  its  slender  twin  needles  of  stone  ; 
you  know  the  Piierta  del  Sol  of  Madrid, 
cooled  by  the  splash  of  sunny  fountains  and 
alive  with  the  rush  of  Spanish  life  ;  and  you 
know,  too,  the  royal  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
brilliant  with  the  never-ending  whirl  of  plea- 
sure-loving Paris.  Yes,  you  know  and  may 
love  them  all,  and  yet  there  is  but  one  grand 
piazza  the  world  over  ;  and  that  lies  to-day  in 
front  of  the  Church  of  San  Marco. 

It  is  difficult  to  account  for  this  fascination. 
Sometimes  you  think  it  lurks  in  the  exqui- 
site taper  of  the  Campanile.  Sometimes 
you  think  the  secret  of  its  charm  is  hidden 
in  masterly  carvings,  delicacy  of  arch,  or  re- 
finement of  color.  Sometimes  the  Piazza 
appeals  to  you  only  as  the  great  open-air 
42 


bricabrac    shop    of   the    universe,    with    its  The 

twin  cohimns  of   stone  stolen  from   the  is- -^/^/■^'^ 

of  Ciaii 
lands  of  the  Archipelago  ;  its  bronze  horses,  Marco 

church  doors,  and  altar  front  wrested  from 
Constantinople  and  the  East  ;  and  its  clus- 
ters of  pillars  torn  from  almost  every  hea- 
then temple  within  reach  of  a  Venetian  gal- 
ley. 

When  your  eye  becomes  accustomed  to  the 
dazzling  splendor  of  the  surroundings,  and 
you  begin  to  analyze  each  separate  feature  of 
this  Court  of  the  Doges,  you  are  even  more 
enchanted  and  bewildered.  San  Marco  itself 
no  longer  impresses  you  as  a  mere  temple, 
with  open  portals  and  swinging  doors  ;  but 
as  an  exquisite  jewel-case  of  agate  and  ivory, 
resplendent  in  gems  and  precious  stones.  The 
clock  tower,  with  its  dial  of  blue  and  gold 
and  its  figures  of  bronze,  is  not,  as  of  old, 
one  of  a  row  of  buildings,  but  a  priceless 
ornament  that  might  adorn  the  palace  of 
some  King  of  the  Giants  ;  while  the  Loggia 
of  Sansovino  could  serve  as  a  mantel  for 
his  banquet  hall,  and  any  one  of  the  three 
bronze  sockets  of  the  flagstaffs,  masterpieces 
of  Leopardo,  hold  huge  candles  to  light  him 
to  bed. 

And  behind  all  this  beauty  of  form  and 
charm  of    handicraft,   how   lurid   the   back- 

43 


The  ground  of  tradition,  cruelty,  and  crime  !  Poor 
Ptazza  Doge  Francesco  Foscari,  condemning  his 
Marco  own  innocent  son  Jacopo  to  exile  and  death, 
in  that  very  room  overlooking  the  square  ; 
the  traitor  Marino  Faliero,  beheaded  on  the 
Giant  Stairs  of  the  palace,  his  head  bound- 
ing to  the  pavement  below ;  the  perfidies 
of  the  Council  of  Ten  ;  the  state  murders, 
tortures,  and  banishments  ;  the  horrors  of 
the  prisons  of  the  Piombi ;  the  silent  death- 
stroke  of  the  unsigned  denunciations  dropped 
into  the  Bocca  del  Leone  —  that  fatal  letter- 
box with  its  narrow  mouth  agape  in  the  wall 
of  stone,  nightly  filled  with  the  secrets  of 
the  living,  daily  emptied  of  the  secrets  of 
the  dead.  All  are  here  before  you.  The 
very  stones  their  victims  trod  lie  beneath 
your  feet,  their  water-soaked  cells  but  a  step 
away. 

As  you  pass  between  the  twin  columns  of 
stone,  —  the  pillars  of  Saint  Theodore  and  of 
the  Lion,  —  you  shudder  when  you  recall  the 
fate  of  the  brave  Piedmontese,  Carmagnola, 
a  fate  unfolding  a  chapter  of  cunning,  in- 
gratitude, and  cruelty  almost  unparalleled  in 
the  histor}'-  of  Venice.  You  remember  that 
for  years  this  great  hireling  captain  had  led 
the  armies  of  Venice  and  the  Florentines 
against  his  former  master,  Philip  of  Milan  ; 
44 


and  that  for  years  Venice  had  idolized  the  The 

victorious  warrior.  l^^^^ 

1-  .  •        of  iian 

You  recall  the  disastrous  expedition  against  Marco 

Cremona,  a  stronghold  of  Philip,  and  the 
subsequent  anxiety  of  the  Senate  lest  the 
sword  of  the  great  captain  should  be  turned 
against  Venice  herself.  You  remember  that 
one  morning,  as  the  story  runs,  a  deputation 
entered  the  tent  of  the  great  captain  and 
presented  the  confidence  of  the  Senate  and 
an  invitation  to  return  at  once  to  Venice 
and  receive  the  plaudits  of  the  people.  At- 
tended by  his  lieutenant,  Gonzaga,  Carma- 
gnola  set  out  to  obey.  All  through  the 
plains  of  Lombardy,  brilliant  in  their  gardens 
of  olive  and  vine,  he  was  received  with  honor 
and  welcome.  At  Mestre  he  was  met  by 
an  escort  of  eight  gentlemen  in  gorgeous 
apparel,  special  envoys  dispatched  by  the 
Senate,  who  conducted  him  across  the  wide 
lagoon  and  down  the  Grand  Canal,  to  this 
very  spot  on  the  Molo. 

On  landing  from  his  sumptuous  barge,  the 
banks  ringing  with  the  shouts  of  the  popu- 
lace, he  was  led  by  his  escort  direct  to  the 
palace,  and  instantly  thrust  into  an  under- 
ground dungeon.  Thirty  days  later,  after  a 
trial  such  as  only  the  Senate  of  the  period 
would  tolerate,  and  gagged  lest  his  indignant 

45 


The 
Piazza 
of  San 
Marco 


outcry  might  rebound  in  mutinous  echoes, 
his  head  fell  between  the  columns  of  San 
Marco. 

There  are  other  pages  to  which  one  could 
turn  in  this  book  of  the  past,  pages  rubri- 
cated in  blood  and  black-lettered  in  crime. 
The  book  is  opened  here  because  this  tragedy 
of  Carmagnola  recalls  so  clearly  and  vividly 
the  methods  and  impulses  of  the  times,  and 
because,  too,  it  occurred  where  all  Venice 
could  see,  and  where  to-day  you  can  conjure 
up  for  yourself  the  minutest  details  of  the 
terrible  outrage.  Almost  nothing  of  the 
scenery  is  changed.  From  where  you  stand 
between  these  fatal  shafts,  the  same  now  as 
in  the  days  of  Carmagnola  (even  then  two 
centuries  old),  there  still  hangs  a  balcony 
whence  you  could  have  caught  the  glance  of 
that  strong,  mute  warrior.  Along  the  water's 
edge  of  this  same  Molo,  where  now  the  gon- 
doliers ply  their  calling,  and  the  lasagjioni 
lounge  and  gossip,  stood  the  soldiers  of  the 
state  drawn  up  in  solid  phalanx.  Across  the 
canal,  by  the  margin  of  this  same  island  of 
San  Giorgio  —  before  the  present  church 
was  built  —  the  people  waited  in  masses, 
silently  watching  the  group  between  those 
two  stone  posts  that  marked  for  them,  and 
for  all  Venice,  the  doorway  of  hell.  Above 
46 


towered  this  same  Campanile,  all  but  its  very  The 
top  complete.  ^jf^^^l 

But  you  hurry  away,  crossing  the  square  y^/^rt-^ 
with  a  lingering  look  at  this  fatal  spot,  and 
enter  where  all  these  and  a  hundred  other 
tragedies  were  initiated,  the  Palace  of  the 
Doges.  It  is  useless  to  attempt  a  descrip- 
tion of  its  wonderful  details.  If  I  should 
elaborate,  it  would  not  help  to  give  you  a 
clearer  idea  of  this  marvel  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  To  those  who  know  Venice,  it  will 
convey  no  new  impression  ;  to  those  who  do 
not  it  might  add  only  confusion  and  error. 

Give  yourself  up  instead  to  the  garrulous 
old  guide  who  assails  you  as  you  enter,  and 
who,  for  a  few  lire,  makes  a  thousand  years 
as  one  day.  It  is  he  who  will  tell  you  of  the 
beautiful  gate,  the  Porta  della  Carta  of  Bar- 
tolommeo  Bon,  with  its  statues  weather- 
stained  and  worn ;  of  the  famous  Scala  dei 
Giganti,  built  by  Rizzo  in  1485  ;  of  the  two 
exquisitely  moulded  and  chased  bronze  well- 
heads of  the  court  ;  of  the  golden  stairs  of 
Sansovino  ;  of  the  ante-chamber  of  the  Coun- 
cil of  Ten  ;  of  the  great  Sala  di  Collegia,  in 
which  the  foreign  ambassadors  were  received 
by  the  Doge  ;  of  the  superb  senate  chamber, 
the  Sala  del  Senato ;  of  the  costly  marbles 
and  marvelous  carvings  ;   of  the  ceilings  of 

47 


The  Titian,  Tintoretto,  and  Veronese ;  of  the 
Piazza  secret  passages,  dungeons,  and  torture  cham- 
Marco      bers. 

But  the  greatest  of  all  these  marvels  of 
the  Piazza  still  awaits  you,  the  Church  of 
San  Marco.  Dismiss  the  old  guide  outside 
the  beautiful  gate  and  enter  its  doors  alone ; 
here  he  would  fail  you. 

If  you  come  only  to  measure  the  mosaics, 
to  value  the  swinging  lamps,  or  to  speculate 
over  the  uneven,  half-worn  pavement  of  the 
interior,  enter  its  doors  at  any  time,  early 
morning  or  bright  noonday,  or  whenever 
your  practical,  materialistic,  nineteenth-cen- 
tury body  would  escape  from  the  blaze  of  the 
sun  outside.  Or  you  can  stay  away  alto- 
gether ;  neither  you  nor  the  world  will  be 
the  loser.  But  if  you  are  the  kind  of  man 
who  loves  all  beautiful  things,  —  it  may  be 
the  sparkle  of  early  dew  upon  the  grass,  the 
silence  and  rest  of  cool  green  woods,  the 
gloom  of  the  fading  twilight,  —  or  if  your 
heart  warms  to  the  sombre  tones  of  old 
taj^estries,  armor,  and  glass,  and  you  touch 
with  loving  tenderness  the  vellum  backs  of 
old  books,  then  enter  when  the  glory  of  the 
setting  sun  sifts  in  and  falls  in  shattered 
shafts  of  light  on  altar,  roof,  and  wall.  Go 
with  noiseless  step  and  uncovered  head,  and, 
48 


finding  some  deep-shadowed  seat  or  sheltered  The 
nook,  open  your  heart  and  mind  and  soul  to  P^"-^^<^ 
the  story  of  its  past,  made  doubly  precious  by  Marco 
the  splendor  of  its  present.    As  you  sit  there 
in  the  shadow,  the  spell  of  its  exquisite  color 
will  enchant  you  —  color  mellowing  into  har- 
monies you  knew  not  of;  harmonies  of  old 
gold  and  porphyry  reds ;   the  dull  silver  of 
dingy  swinging  lamps,  with  the  soft  light  of 
candles  and  the  dreamy  haze  of  dying  in- 
cense ;  harmonies  of  rich  brown  carvings  and 
dark  bronzes  rubbed  bright  by  a  thousand 
reverent  hands. 

The  feeling  which  will  steal  over  you  will 
not  be  one  of  religious  humility,  like  that 
which  took  possession  of  you  in  the  Saint 
Sophia  of  Constantinople.  It  will  be  more 
like  the  blind  idolatry  of  the  pagan,  for  of  all 
the  temples  of  the  earth,  this  shrine  of  San 
Marco  is  the  most  worthy  of  your  devotion. 
Every  turn  of  the  head  will  bring  new  mar- 
vels into  relief ;  marvels  of  mosaic,  glinting 
like  beaten  gold ;  marvels  of  statue,  crucifix, 
and  lamp  ;  marvels  of  altars,  resplendent  in 
burnished  silver  and  flickering  tapers ;  of 
alabaster  columns  merging  into  the  vistas  ; 
of  sculptured  saint  and  ceiling  of  sheeted 
gold ;  of  shadowy  aisle  and  high  uplifted 
cross. 

49 


The  Never  have  you  seen   any  such  interior. 

Piazza     HunsT  with  the  priceless  fabrics  and  relics  of 

of  San       .       ^     .     .     . 

Marco      the  earth,  it  is  to  you  one  moment  a  great 

mosque,  studded  with  jewels  and  rich  with 
the  wealth  of  the  East ;  then,  as  its  color 
deepens,  a  vast  tomb,  hollowed  from  out  a 
huge,  dark  opal,  in  which  lies  buried  some 
heroic  soul,  who  in  his  day  controlled  the 
destinies  of  nations  and  of  men.  And  now 
again,  when  the  mystery  of  its  light  shim- 
mers through  windows  covered  with  the  dust 
of  ages,  there  comes  to  this  wondrous  shrine 
of  San  Marco,  small  as  it  is,  something  of  the 
breadth  and  beauty,  the  solitude  and  repose, 
of  a  summer  night. 

When  the  first  hush  and  awe  and  sense  of 
sublimity  have  passed  away,  you  wander,  like 
the  other  pilgrims,  into  the  baptistery ;  or 
you  move  softly  behind  the  altar,  marveling 
over  each  carving  of  wood  and  stone  and 
bronze ;  or  you  descend  to  the  crypt  and 
stand  by  the  stone  sarcophagus  that  once 
held  the  bones  of  the  good  saint  himself. 

As  you  walk  about  these  shadowy  aisles, 
and  into  the  dim  recesses,  some  new  devotee 
swings  back  a  door,  and  a  blaze  of  light 
streams  in,  and  you  awake  to  the  life  of 
to-day. 

Yes,  there  is  a  present  as  well  as  a  past. 
50 


There  is  another  Venice  outside ;  a  Venice  The 
of  hfe  and  joyousness  and  stir.  The  sun  {s^lf^^^^ 
going  down  ;  the  caff^s  under  the  arcades  Marco 
of  the  King's  Palace  and  of  the  Proctiratie 
Vecchie  are  filling  up.  There  is  hardly  an 
empty  table  at  Florian's.  The  pigeons,  too, 
are  coming  home  to  roost,  and  are  nestling 
under  the  eaves  of  the  great  buildings  and 
settling  on  the  carvings  of  San  Marco.  The 
flower  girls,  in  gay  costumes,  are  making 
shops  of  the  marble  benches  next  the  Cam- 
panile, assorting  roses  and  pinks,  and  arran- 
ging their  boutonnihes  for  the  night's  sale. 
The  awnings  which  have  hung  all  day  be- 
tween the  columns  of  the  arcades  are  drawn 
back,  exposing  the  great  line  of  shops  frin- 
ging three  sides  of  the  square.  Lights  begin 
to  flash  ;  first  in  the  clusters  of  lamps  illumi- 
nating the  arcades,  and  then  in  the  windows 
filled  with  exquisite  bubble-blown  Venetian 
glass,  wood  carvings,  inlaid  cabinets,  cheap 
jewelry,  gay-colored  photographs  and  prints. 
As  the  darkness  falls,  half  a  dozen  men 
drag  to  the  centre  of  the  Piazza  the  segments 
of  a  great  circular  platform.  This  they  sur- 
round with  music-rests  and  a  stand  for  the 
leader.  Now  the  pavement  of  the  Piazza 
itself  begins  filling  up.  Out  from  the  Mer- 
ceria,  from  under  the  clock  tower,  pours  a 

51 


The         steady   stream    of    people    merging   in   the 

Ptazsa     crowds  about  the  band-stand.     Another  cur- 

of  ^an  _  .         ,  ,        , 

Marco      ^^^i^t   flows    m    through   the   west    entrance, 

under  the  Bocca  di  Piazza,  and  still  another 
from  under  the  Riva,  rounding  the  Doges' 
Palace,  At  the  Molo,  just  where  poor  Car- 
magnola  stepped  ashore,  a  group  of  officers 
—  they  are  everywhere  in  Venice  —  land 
from  a  government  barge.  These  are  in  full 
regalia,  even  to  their  white  kid  gloves,  their 
swords  dangling  and  ringing  as  they  walk. 
They,  too,  make  their  way  to  the  square  and 
fill  the  seats  around  one  of  the  tables  at 
Florian's,  bowing  magnificently  to  the  old 
Countess  who  sits  just  inside  the  door  of  the 
caff^  itself,  resplendent,  as  usual,  in  dyed 
wig  and  rose-colored  veil.  She  is  taking  off 
her  long,  black,  fingerless  silk  gloves,  and 
ordering  her  customary  spoonful  of  cognac 
and  lump  of  sugar.  Gustavo,  the  head  waiter, 
listens  as  demurely  as  if  he  expected  a  bottle 
of  Chablis  at  least,  with  the  customary  com- 
mission for  Gustavo  —  but  then  Gustavo  is 
the  soul  of  politeness.  Some  evil-minded 
people  say  the  Countess  came  in  with  the 
Austrians  ;  others,  more  ungallant,  date  her 
advent  about  the  days  of  the  early  doges. 

By   this    time    you    notice    that    the    old 
French  professor  is  in  his  customary  place ; 
52 


it  is  outside  the  caffe,  in  the  corridor,  on  a  The 

leather-covered,  cushioned  seat  ao^ainst  one  ■'^f'^i'^''^ 

r    1      1  •   ,       -11  -ir  1     of  San 

of  the  high  pillars.     You  never  come  to  the  Marco 

Piazza  without  meeting  him.  He  is  as  much 
a  part  of  its  history  as  the  pigeons,  and,  like 
them,  dines  here  at  least  once  a  day.  He  is 
a  perfectly  straight,  pale,  punctilious,  and 
exquisitely  deferential  relic  of  a  bygone 
time,  whose  only  capital  is  his  charming 
manner  and  his  thorough  knowledge  of  Vene- 
tian life.  This  combination  rarely  fails  where 
so  many  strangers  come  and  go  ;  and  then, 
too,  no  one  knows  so  well  the  intricacies  of 
an  Italian  kitchen  as  Professor  Croisac. 

Sometimes  on  summer  evenings  he  will 
move  back  a  chair  at  your  own  table  and 
insist  upon  dressing  the  salad.  Long  before 
his  greeting,  you  catch  sight  of  him  gently 
edging  his  way  through  the  throng,  the 
seedy,  straight-brimmed  silk  hat  in  his  hand 
brushed  with  the  greatest  precision ;  his 
almost  threadbare  frock  coat  buttoned  snug 
around  his  waist,  the  collar  and  tails  flowing 
loose,  his  one  glove  hanging  limp.  He  is  so 
erect,  so  gentle,  so  soft-voiced,  so  sincere, 
and  so  genuine,  and  for  the  hour  so  su- 
premely happy,  that  you  cannot  divest  your- 
self of  the  idea  that  he  really  is  an  old 
marquis,  temporarily  exiled   from  some  far- 

53 


The  away  court,  and  to  be  treated  with  the  great- 
Ptazza  ggj-  deference.  When,  with  a  Httle  start  of 
Marco  sudden  surprise,  he  espies  some  dark-eyed 
matron  in  the  group  about  him,  rises  to  his 
feet  and  sakites  her  as  if  she  were  the  Queen 
of  Sheba,  you  are  altogether  sure  of  his  noble 
rank.  Then  the  old  fellow  regains  his  seat, 
poises  his  gold  eyeglasses  —  a  relic  of  better 
days  —  between  his  thumb  and  forefinger, 
holds  them  two  inches  from  his  nose,  and 
consults  the  meriii  with  the  air  of  a  connois- 
seur. 

Before  your  coffee  is  served  the  whole 
Piazza  is  ablaze  and  literally  packed  with 
people.  The  tables  around  you  stand  quite 
out  to  the  farthest  edge  permitted.  (These 
caffes  have,  so  to  speak,  riparian  rights  —  so 
much  piazza  seating  frontage,  facing  the 
high-water  mark  of  the  caff^  itself.)  The 
waiters  can  now  hardly  wedge  their  way 
through  the  crowd.  The  chairs  are  so 
densely  occupied  that  you  barely  move  your 
elbows.  Next  you  is  an  Italian  mother  — 
full-blown  even  to  her  delicate  mustache  — 
surrounded  by  a  bevy  of  daughters,  all  in 
pretty  hats  and  white  or  gay-colored  dresses, 
chatting  with  a  circle  of  still  other  officers. 
All  over  the  square,  where  earlier  in  the  day 
only  a  few  stray  pilgrims  braved  the  heat,  or 
54 


a  hungry  pigeon  wandered  in  search  of  a  grain  The 
of  corn,  ihQ personnel  of  this  table  is  repeated  P^^^^<i 
—  mothers  and  officers  and  daughters,  andjJij'J 
daughters  and  officers  and  mothers  again. 

Outside  this  mass,  representing  a  clientele 
possessing  at  least  half  a  lira  each  — one 
cannot,  of  course,  occupy  a  chair  and  spend 
less,  and  it  is  equally  difficult  to  spend  very 
much  more  —  there  moves  in  a  solid  mass 
the  rest  of  the  world  :  bareheaded  girls,  who 
have  been  all  day  stringing  beads  in  some 
hot  courtyard  ;  old  crones  in  rags  from  be- 
low the  shipyards  ;  fishermen  in  from  Chiog- 
gia;  sailors,  stevedores,  and  soldiers  in  their 
linen  suits,  besides  sight-seers  and  wayfarers 
from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth. 

If  there  were  nothing  else  in  Venice  but 
the  night  life  of  this  grand  Piazza,  it  would 
be  worth  a  pilgrimage  half  across  the  world 
to  see.  Empty  every  cafe  in  the  Boulevards  ; 
add  all  the  habitues  of  the  Volks  Gardens  of 
Vienna,  and  all  those  you  remember  at  Ber- 
lin, Buda-Pesth,  and  Florence ;  pack  them  in 
one  mass,  and  you  would  not  half  fill  the 
Piazza.  Even  if  you  did,  you  could  never 
bring  together  the  same  kinds  of  people. 
Venice  is  not  only  the  magnet  that  draws 
the  idler  and  the  sight-seer,  but  those  who 
love  her  just  because  she  is  Venice  —  paint- 

55 


The         ers,  students,  architects,  historians,  musicians, 
Piazza     gyery  soul   who   vahies   the   past   and   who 
Marco      finds    here,    as   nowhere    else,    the    highest 
achievement  of  chisel,  brush,  and  trowel. 

The  painters  come,  of  course — all  kinds 
of  painters,  for  all  kinds  of  subjects.  Every 
morning,  all  over  the  canals  and  quays,  you 
find  a  new  growth  of  white  umbrellas,  like 
mushrooms,  sprung  up  in  the  night.  Since 
the  days  of  Canaletto  these  men  have  painted 
and  repainted  these  same  stretches  of  water, 
palace,  and  sky.  Once  under  the  spell  of 
her  presence,  they  are  never  again  free  from 
the  fascinations  of  this  Mistress  of  the  Adri- 
atic. Many  of  the  older  men  are  long  since 
dead  and  forgotten,  but  the  work  of  those  of 
to-day  you  know  :  Ziem  first,  nearly  all  his 
life  a  worshiper  of  the  wall  of  the  Public 
Garden  ;  and  Rico  and  Ruskin  and  Whistler, 
Their  names  are  legion.  They  have  all  had 
a  corner  at  Florian's.  No  matter  what  their 
nationality  or  specialty,  they  speak  the  com- 
mon language  of  the  brush.  Old  Professor 
Croisac  knows  them  all.  He  has  just  risen 
again  to  salute  Marks,  a  painter  of  sunrises, 
who  has  never  yet  recovered  from  his  first 
thrill  of  delight  when  early  one  morning  his 
gondolier  rowed  him  down  the  lagoon  and 
made  fast  to  a  cluster  of  spiles  off  the  Public 
56 


Garden.      When   the   sun   rose   behind   the  The 

sycamores  and  threw  a  flood  of  gold  across   j'^.f'^''^ 

■'  .  .  ,  .     of  Sa7t 

the  sleeping  city,  and  flashed  upon  the  sails  Marco 

of    the    fishing-boats    drifting   up   from    the 

Lido,  Marks  lost  his  heart.     He  is  still  tied 

up   every  summer  to    that   same  cluster  of 

spiles,  painting  the  glory  of  the  morning  sky 

and  the  drifting  boats.     He  will  never  want 

to  paint  anything  else.     He  will  not  listen 

to  you  when  you  tell  him  of  the  sunsets  up 

the  Giudecca,  or  the  soft  pearly  light  of  the 

dawn  silvering  the  Salute,  or  the  picturesque 

life  of  the  fisher-folk  of  Malamocco. 

"My  dear  boy,"  he  breaks  out,  "get  up 
to-morrow  morning  at  five  and  come  down  to 
the  Garden,  and  just  see  one  sunrise  —  only 
one.  We  had  a  lemon-yellow  and  pale  em- 
erald sky  this  morning,  with  dabs  of  rose- 
leaves,  that  would  have  paralyzed  you." 

Do  not  laugh  at  the  painter's  enthusiasm. 
This  white  goddess  of  the  sea  has  a  thousand 
lovers,  and,  like  all  other  lovers  the  world 
over,  each  one  believes  that  he  alone  holds 
the  key  to  her  heart. 

57 


OLD    GARDEN 

jOU  think,  perhaps,  there  are 
no  gardens  in  Venice  ;  that  it 
is  all  a  sweep  of  palace  front 
and  shimmering  sea  ;  that  save 
for  the  oleanders  bursting  into 
bloom  near  the  Iron  Bridge,  and  the  great 
trees  of  the  Public  Garden  shading  the 
flower-bordered  walks,  there  are  no  half- 
neglected  tangles  where  rose  and  vine  run 
riot ;  where  the  plash  of  the  fountain  is 
heard  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  and  tall 
cedars  cast  their  black  shadows  at  noonday. 

Really,  if  you  but  knew  it,  almost  every 
palace  hides  a  garden  nestling  beneath  its 
balconies,  and  every  high  wall  hems  in  a 
wealth  of  green,  studded  with  broken  statues, 
quaint  arbors  festooned  with  purple  grapes, 
and  white  walks  bordered  by  ancient  box ; 
while  every  roof  that  falls  beneath  a  window 
is  made  a  hanging  garden  of  potted  plants 
and  swinging  vines. 

Step  from  your  gondola  into  some  open 
archway.  A  door  beyond  leads  you  to  a 
court  paved  with  marble  flags  and  centred 
by  a  well  with  carved  marble  curb,  yellow 
stained  with  age.  Cross  this  wide  court, 
58 


Lff' 


BEYOND    SAN    ROSARIO 


pass  a  swinging  iron  gate,  and   you    stand  hi  an 
under    rose-covered    bowers,    where   in    the  q     j 
olden  time  gay  gallants  touched  their  lutes 
and  fair  ladies   listened  to  oft-told   tales  of 
love. 

And  not  only  behind  the  palaces  facing 
the  Grand  Canal,  but  along  the  Zattere 
beyond  San  Rosario,  away  down  the  Giu- 
decca,  and  by  the  borders  of  the  lagoon,  will 
you  find  gay  oleanders  flaunting  red  blos- 
soms, and  ivy  and  myrtle  hanging  in  black- 
green  bunches  over  crumbling  walls. 

In  one  of  these  hidden  nooks,  these  aban- 
doned cloisters  of  shaded  walk  and  over- 
bending  blossom,  I  once  spent  an  autumn 
afternoon  with  my  old  friend,  the  Professor, 
—  "  Professor  of  Modern  Languages  and  An- 
cient Legends,"  as  some  of  the  more  flippant 
of  the  habitues  of  Florian's  were  wont  to 
style  him.  The  old  Frenchman  had  justly 
earned  this  title.  He  had  not  only  made 
every  tradition  and  fable  of  Venice  his  own, 
often  puzzling  and  charming  the  Venetians 
themselves  with  his  intimate  knowledge  of 
the  many  romances  of  their  past,  but  he 
could  tell  most  wonderful  tales  of  the  gor- 
geous fetes  of  the  seventeenth  century,  the 
social  life  of  the  nobility,  their  escapades, 
intrigues,  and  scandals. 

59 


In  an  If  some  fair  Venetian  had  loved  not  wisely 

2^^  ,  but  too  well,  and,  clinging  to  brave  Lorenzo's 
neck,  had  slipped  down  a  rope  ladder  into 
a  closely  curtained,  muffled-oared  gondola, 
and  so  over  the  lagoon  to  Mestre,  the  old 
Frenchman  could  not  only  point  out  to  you 
the  very  balcony,  provided  it  were  a  palace 
balcony  and  not  a  fisherman's  window,  —  he 
despised  the  bojirgeoisie,  —  but  he  could  give 
you  every  feature  of  the  escapade,  from  the 
moment  the  terror-stricken  duenna  missed 
her  charge  to  that  of  the  benediction  of  the 
priest  in  the  shadowed  isle.  So,  when  upon 
the  evening  preceding  this  particular  day,  I 
accepted  the  Professor's  invitation  to  break- 
fast, I  had  before  me  not  only  his  hospitality, 
frugal  as  it  might  be,  but  the  possibility  of 
drawing  upon  his  still  more  delightful  fund 
of  anecdote  and  reminiscence. 

Neither  the  day  nor  the  hour  had  been 
definitely  set.  The  invitation,  I  afterwards 
discovered,  was  but  one  of  the  many  he  was 
constantly  giving  to  his  numerous  friends 
and  haphazard  acquaintances,  evincing  by  its 
perfect  genuineness  his  own  innate  kindness 
and  his  hearty  appreciation  of  the  many  simi- 
lar courtesies  he  was  daily  receiving  at  their 
hands.  Indeed,  to  a  man  so  delicately  ad- 
justed as  the  Professor  and  so  entirely  poor, 
60 


it  was  the  only  way  he  could  balance,  in  his  In  an 
own  mind,  many  long-running  accounts  of  ^  , 
coffee  for  two  at  the  Calchia,  with  a  fish  and 
a  fruit  salad,  the  last  a  specialty  of  the  Pro- 
fessor's —  the  oil,  melons,  and  cucumbers 
being  always  provided  by  his  host  —  or  a 
dish  of  risotto,  with  kidneys  and  the  like,  at 
the  Bmier-Grilnwald. 

Nobody  ever  accepted  these  invitations 
seriously,  that  is,  no  one  who  knew  the  Pro- 
fessor at  all  well.  In  fact,  there  was  a  gen- 
eral impression  existing  among  the  many 
frequenters  of  Florian's  and  the  Quadri  that 
the  Professor's  hour  and  place  of  breakfast- 
ing were  very  like  the  birds'  —  whenever  the 
unlucky  worm  was  found,  and  wherever  the 
accident  happened  to  occur.  When  I  asked 
Marks  for  the  old  fellow's  address — which 
rather  necessary  item  I  remembered  later 
had  also  been  omitted  by  the  Professor  — 
he  replied,  "Oh,  somewhere  down  the  Riva," 
and  dropped  the  subject  as  too  unimportant 
for  further  mental  effort. 

All  these  various  eccentricities  of  my  pro- 
spective host,  however,  were  at  the  time 
unknown  to  me.  He  had  cordially  invited 
me  to  breakfast  —  "  to-morrow,  or  any  day 
you  are  near  my  apartments,  I  would  be  so 
charmed,"  etc.    I  had  as  graciously  accepted, 

6i 


In  an       and  it  would  have  been  unpardonable  indif- 
Old         ference,  I  felt  sure,  not  to   have  continued 
the  inquiries  until  my  hand  touched  his  latch- 
string. 

The  clue  was  a  slight  one.  I  had  met  him 
once,  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  bridge 
below  Danieli's,  the  Ponte  del  Sepolcro,  look- 
ing wistfully  out  to  sea,  and  was  greeted  with 
the  remark  that  he  had  that  moment  left  his 
apartments,  and  only  lingered  on  the  bridge 
to  watch  the  play  of  silvery  light  on  the 
lagoon,  the  September  skies  were  so  en- 
chanting. So  on  this  particular  morning  I 
began  inspecting  the  bell-pulls  of  all  the 
doorways,  making  inquiry  at  the  several 
caffes  and  shops.  Then  I  remembered  the 
apothecary,  down  one  step  from  the  side- 
walk, in  the  Via  Garibaldi  —  a  rather  shabby 
continuation  of  the  Riva  —  and  nearly  a  mile 
below  the  more  prosperous  quarter  where  the 
Professor  had  waved  his  hand,  the  morning  I 
met  him  on  the  bridge. 

"  The  Signor  Croisac  —  the  old  French- 
man }  "     "  Upstairs,  next  door." 

He  was  as  delightful  as  ever  in  his  greet- 
ings ;  started  a  little  when  I  reminded  him 
of  his  invitation,  but  begged  me  to  come  in 
and  sit  down,  and  with  great  courtesy  pointed 
out  the  view  of  the  garden  below,  and  the 
62 


sweep  and  glory  of   the  lagoon.     Then  he  In  an 
excused  himself,  adjusted  his  hat,  picked  up  q^^^^^ 
a  basket,  and  gently  closed  the  door. 

The  room,  upon  closer  inspection,  was 
neither  dreary  nor  uninviting.  It  had  a  sort 
of  annex,  or  enlarged  closet,  with  a  drawn 
curtain  partly  concealing  a  bed,  a  row  of 
books  lining  one  wall,  a  table  littered  with 
papers,  a  smaller  one  containing  a  copper 
coffee-pot  and  a  scant  assortment  of  china, 
some  old  chairs,  and  a  disemboweled  lounge 
that  had  doubtless  lost  heart  in  middle  life 
and  committed  hari-kari.  There  were  also 
a  few  prints  and  photographs,  a  corner  of 
the  Parthenon,  a  mezzo  of  Napoleon  in  his 
cocked  hat,  and  an  etching  or  two,  besides  a 
miniature  reduction  of  the  Dying  Gladiator, 
which  he  used  as  a  paper-weight.  All  the 
windows  of  this  modest  apartment  were  filled 
with  plants,  growing  in  all  kinds  of  pots  and 
boxes,  broken  pitchers,  cracked  dishes  — 
even  half  of  a  Chianti  flask.  These,  like 
their  guardian,  ignored  their  surroundings 
and  furnishings,  and  flamed  away  as  joyously 
in  the  summer  sun  as  if  they  had  been  nur- 
tured in  the  choicest  of  majolica. 

He  was  back  before  I  had  completed  my 
inventory,  thanking  me  again  and  again  for 
my   extreme    kindness   in   coming,   all    the 

63 


Garden 


In  an  while  unwrapping  the  Gorgonzola,  and  fleck- 
91'^  ■,  ins:  off  with  a  fork  the  shreds  of  paper  that 
still  clung  to  its  edges.  The  morsel  was 
then  laid  upon  a  broad  leaf  gathered  at  the 
window,  and  finally  upon  a  plate  covered  by 
a  napkin  so  that  the  flies  should  not  taste 
it  first.  This,  with  a  simple  salad,  a  pot  of 
coffee  and  some  rolls,  a  siphon  of  seltzer  and 
a  little  raspberry  juice  in  a  glass,  —  "  so  much 
fresher  than  wine  these  hot  mornings,"  he 
said,  —  constituted  the  entire  repast. 

But  there  was  no  apology  offered  with  the 
serving.  Poor  as  he  was,  he  had  that  ex- 
quisite tact  which  avoided  burdening  his 
guest  even  with  his  economies.  He  had  of- 
fered me  all  his  slender  purse  could  afford. 
Indeed,  the  cheese  had  quite  overstrained  it. 
When  he  had  drawn  a  cigarette  from  my 
case,  —  it  was  delightful  to  see  him  do  this, 
and  always  reminded  me  of  a  young  girl 
picking  bonbons  from  a  box,  it  was  so  dain- 
tily done,  —  the  talk  drifted  into  a  discussion 
of  the  glories  of  the  old  days  and  of  the 
welfare  of  Italy  under  the  present  govern- 
ment. I  made  a  point  of  expressing  my 
deep  admiration  for  the  good  King  Humbert 
and  his  gracious  queen.  The  Professor 
merely  waved  his  hand,  adding  :  — 

"  Yes,  a  good  man  and  a  noble  lady,  worthy 
64 


successors  of  the  old  regime  !  "  Then,  with  In  an 
a  certain  air,  "  I  have  known,  professionally,  91  , 
very  many  of  these  great  families.  A  most 
charming,  delightful  society  !  The  women 
so  exquisite,  with  such  wealth  of  hair  and 
eyes,  and  so  gentilles :  always  of  the  Beau 
Monde  !  And  their  traditions  and  legends, 
so  full  of  romance  and  mystery !  The  pal- 
aces too  !  Think  of  the  grand  staircase  of 
the  Foscari,  the  entrance  to  the  Barbaro,  and 
the  superb  ceilings  of  the  Albrezzi !  Then 
their  great  gardens  and  vine  orchards  !  There 
is  nothing  like  them.  Do  you  happen  to 
know  the  old  garden  on  the  Giudecca,  where 
lived  the  beautiful  Contessa  Alberoni  ?  No  ? 
And  you  never  heard  the  romantic  story  of 
her  life,  her  disappearance,  and  its  dramatic 
ending  ? " 

I  shook  my  head.  The  Professor,  to  my 
delight,  was  now  fairly  in  the  saddle  ;  the 
best  part  of  the  breakfast  was  to  come. 

"  My  dear  friend  !  One  of  the  most  curi- 
ous of  all  the  stories  of  Venice !  I  know  in- 
timately many  of  her  descendants,  and  I 
know,  too,  the  old  gardener  who  still  cares  for 
what  is  left  of  the  garden.  It  has  long  since 
passed  out  of  the  hands  of  the  family. 

"  Let  me  light  another  cigarette  before  I 
tell  you,"   said  the  Professor,  crossing   the 

65 


In  an       room,   "  and  just  another  drop  of  seltzer," 

^ciden    filling  my  glass. 

"  Is  it  to  be  a  true  story  ? "  I  asked. 

^^  Moil  cJiev  ami!  absolutely  so.  Would 
you  care  to  see  the  garden  itself,  where  it  all 
occurred,  or  will  you  take  my  word  for  it  ? 
No,  not  until  you  sit  under  the  arbors  and 
lean  over  the  very  balcony  where  the  lovers 
sat.  Come,  is  your  gondola  here  .-'  Under 
the  window  } "  pushing  aside  the  flowers. 
"  Which  is  your  gondolier  ?  The  one  in  blue 
with  the  white  tenda  over  his  boat  .■'  Yes, 
sound  asleep  like  all  the  rest  of  them  !  " 

Here  the  old  gentleman  picked  up  his  silk 
hat,  passed  his  hand  once  or  twice  around  its 
well-brushed  surface,  discarded  it  for  a  white 
straw  with  a  narrow  black  band,  adjusted  his 
cravat  in  a  broken  mirror  that  hung  near  the 
door,  gave  an  extra  twist  to  his  gray  mus- 
tache, and  preceded  me  downstairs  and  out 
into  the  blinding  light  of  a  summer  day. 

Several  members  of  the  Open-Air  Club 
were  hanging  over  the  bridge  as  we  passed  — 
Luigi  flat  on  his  face  and  sound  asleep  in  the 
shadow  of  the  side-wall,  and  Vittorio  sprawled 
out  on  the  polished  rail  above.  Those  who 
were  awake  touched  their  hats  respectfully 
to  the  old  fellow  as  he  crossed  the  bridge,  he 
returning  their  salutations  quite  as  a  distin- 
66 


giiished  earl  would  those  of  his  tenants.  In  an 
Vittorio,  when  he  caught  my  eye,  sprang  91^  , 
down  and  ran  ahead  to  rouse  Espero,  and 
then  back  for  Luigi,  who  awoke  with  a  dazed 
look  on  his  face,  only  regaining  conscious- 
ness in  time  to  wave  his  hat  to  me  when  we 
were  clear  of  the  quay,  the  others  standing 
in  a  row  enjoying  his  discomfiture. 

"  This  garden,"  continued  the  Professor, 
settling  himself  on  the  cushions  and  drawing 
the  curtains  so  that  he  could  keep  the  view 
toward  San  Giorgio  and  still  shut  out  the 
dazzling  light,  "  is  now,  of  course,  only  a 
ghost  of  its  former  self.  The  chateau  is  half 
in  ruins,  and  one  part  is  inhabited  by  fisher- 
men, who  dry  their  nets  in  the  grape  arbors 
and  stow  their  fish-baskets  in  the  porticoes. 
Many  of  the  fruit-trees,  however,  still  exist, 
as  do  many  of  the  vines,  and  so  my  old  friend 
Angelo,  the  gardener,  makes  a  scanty  living 
for  himself  and  his  pretty  daughter,  by  sup- 
plying the  fruit-stands  in  the  autumn  and 
raising  lettuce  and  melons  in  the  spring  and 
summer.  The  ground  itself,  like  most  of  the 
land  along  the  east  side  of  the  islands  of  the 
Giudecca,  is  valueless,  and  everything  is  fall- 
ing into  ruin." 

We  were  rounding  the  Dogana,  Espero 
bending  lustily  to  his  oar  as  we  shot  past  the 

67 


In  an  wood-boats  anchored  in  the  stream.  The 
01^  Professor  talked  on,  pointing  out  the  palace 
where  Pierre,  the  French  adventurer,  lived 
during  the  Spanish  conspiracy,  and  the  very 
side-door  in  the  old  building,  once  a  convent, 
from  which  an  Englishman  in  the  old  days 
stole  a  nun  who  loved  him,  and  spirited  her 
off  to  another  quaint  nook  in  this  same  Giu- 
decca,  returning  her  to  her  cell  every  morn- 
ing before  daybreak. 

"  Ah,  those  were  the  times  to  live  in.  Then 
a  soldo  was  as  large  as  a  lira.  Then  a  woman 
loved  you  for  yourself,  not  for  what  you  gave 
her.  Then  your  gondolier  kept  your  secrets, 
and  the  keel  of  your  boat  left  no  trace  be- 
hind. Then  your  family  crest  meant  some- 
thing more  than  the  name-plate  on  your 
door,  upon  which  to  nail  a  tax-levy." 

The  old  man  had  evidently  forgotten  his 
history,  but  I  did  not  check  him.  It  was  his 
buoyant  enthusiasm  that  always  charmed  me 
most. 

As  Espero  passed  under  Ponte  Lungo,  the 
wooden  bridge  leading  to  the  Fondamenia 
della  Pallada,  the  Professor  waved  his  hand 
to  the  right,  and  we  floated  out  into  the  la- 
goon and  stopped  at  an  old  water-gate,  its 
doors  weather  stained  and  broken,  over  which 
hung  a  mass  of  tangled  vines. 
68 


"The  garden  of  the  Contessa,"  said  the  In  an 
Professor,  his  face  aglow  with  the  expectancy  9/^^  , 
of  my  pleasure. 

It  was  like  a  dozen  other  water-gates  I  had 
seen,  except  that  no  gratings  were  open  and 
the  surrounding  wall  was  unusually  high. 
Once  inside,  however,  with  the  gate  swung-to 
on  its  rusty  hinges,  you  felt  instantly  that 
the  world  had  been  shut  away  forever.  Here 
were  long  arbors  bordered  by  ancient  box, 
with  arching  roofs  of  purple  grapes.  Against 
the  high  walls  stood  fragments  of  statues, 
some  headless,  some  with  broken  arms  or 
battered  faces.  Near  the  centre  of  the  great 
quadrangle  was  a  sunken  basin,  covered  with 
mould,  and  green  with  the  scum  of  stagnant 
water.  In  the  once  well-regulated  garden 
beds  the  roses  bloomed  gayly,  climbing  over 
pedestal  and  statue,  while  the  trumpet-flower 
and  scarlet-creeper  flaunted  their  colors  high 
upon  the  crumbling  walls  overlooking  the 
lagoon.  At  one  end  of  this  tangled  waste  rose 
the  remains  of  a  once  noble  chateau  or  sum- 
mer home,  built  of  stone  in  the  classic  style 
of  architecture,  the  pediment  of  the  porch 
supported  by  a  row  of  white  marble  columns. 
Leaning  against  these  columns  stood  old 
fish-baskets,  used  for  the  storing  of  live  fish, 
while  over  the  ruined  arbors  hung  in  great 

69 


In  an       festoons  the  nets  of  a  neighboring  fisherman, 
^'^         who  reserved  this  larger  space   for   drying 
and  mending  his  seines. 

It  was  a  ruin,  and  yet  not  a  hopeless  one. 
You  could  see  that  each  year  the  flowers 
struggled  into  life  again  ;  that  the  old  black 
cypresses,  once  trimmed  into  quaint  designs, 
had  still  determined  to  live  on,  even  without 
the  care  of  their  arboreal  barber  ;  that  really 
only  the  pruning-knife  and  spade  were  needed 
to  bring  back  the  garden  to  its  former  beauty. 
And  the  solitude  was  there  too,  the  sense  of 
utter  isolation,  as  if  the  outside  world  were 
across  the  sea,  whither  nor  eye  nor  voice 
could  follow. 

Old  Angelo  and  his  pretty  daughter  —  a 
pure  type  of  the  Venetian  girl  of  to-day,  as 
she  stood  expectantly  with  folded  arms  — 
met  us  at  the  gate,  and  led  the  way  to  a  sort 
of  summer-house,  so  thickly  covered  with 
matted  vines  that  the  sun  only  filtered 
through  and  fell  in  drops  of  gold,  spattering 
the  ground  below.  Here,  encrusted  with 
green  mould,  was  a  marble  table  of  exquisite 
design,  its  circular  top  supported  by  a  tripod 
with  lions'  feet. 

Angelo  evidently  knew  my  companion  and 
his  ways,  for  in  a  few  moments  the  girl  re- 
turned, bringing  a  basket  of  grapes,  some 
70 


figs,  and   a   flask   of  wine.     The   Professor  In  an 
thanked  her,  and  then,  dismissing  her  with  2!^  . 
one  of  his  gentle  hand-waves  and  brushing 
the  fallen  leaves  from  the  stone  bench  with 
his  handkerchief,  sat  down. 

"  And  now,  right  here,"  said  the  old  fel- 
low, placing  his  straw  hat  on  the  seat  beside 
him,  his  gray  hair  glistening  in  the  soft 
light,  "right  here,  where  she  loved  and  died, 
I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  the  Contessa 
Alberoni. 

"This  most  divine  of  women  once  lived  in 
a  grand  old  palace  above  the  Rialto.  She 
belonged  to  a  noble  family  of  Florence, 
whose  ancestors  fought  with  Philip,  before 
the  Campanile  was  finished.  All  over  Italy 
she  was  known  as  the  most  beautiful  woman 
of  her  day,  and  that,  let  me  tell  you,  at  a 
time  when  to  be  counted  as  beautiful  in 
Venice  was  to  be  beautiful  the  world  over. 
She  was  a  woman,"  —  here  the  Professor 
rested  his  head  on  the  marble  seat  and  half 
closed  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  recalling  the 
vision  of  loveliness  from  out  his  own  past, 
— "  well,  one  of  those  ideal  women,  with 
fathomless  eyes  and  rounded  white  arms  and 
throat ;  a  Catherine  Cornaro  type,  of  superb 
carriage  and  presence.  Titian  would  have 
lost  his  heart  over  the  torrent  of  gold  that 

71 


/;/  an       fell  in  masses  about  her  shapely  head,  and 
2}^^  ,       Canova  might  have  exhausted  all   his   skill 
upon  the  outlines  of  her  form. 

*'  In  the  beginning  of  her  womanhood, 
when  yet  barely  sixteen,  she  had  married,  at 
her  father's  bidding,  a  decrepit  Italian  count 
nearly  thrice  her  age,  who,  in  profound  con- 
sideration of  her  sacrifice,  died  in  a  becoming 
manner  within  a  few  years  of  their  marriage, 
leaving  her  his  titles  and  estates.  For  ten 
years  of  her  wedded  life  and  after,  she  lived 
away  off  in  the  secluded  villa  of  Valdagna,  a 
small  town  nestling  among  the  foothills  of 
the  Alps.  Then,  suddenly  awakening  to  the 
power  of  her  wonderful  beauty,  she  took 
possession  of  the  great  palace  on  the  Grand 
Canal  above  the  Rialto.  You  can  see  it  any 
day  ;  and  save  that  some  of  the  spindles  in  the 
exquisite  rose-marble  balconies  are  broken 
and  the  fagade  blackened  and  weather  stained, 
the  exterior  is  quite  as  it  appeared  in  her 
time.  The  interior,  however,  owing  to  the 
obliteration  of  this  noble  family  and  the  con- 
sequent decay  of  its  vast  estates,  is  almost  a 
ruin.  Every  piece  of  furniture  and  all  the 
gorgeous  hangings  are  gone  ;  together  with 
the  mantels,  and  the  superb  well-curb  in  the 
court  below.  Tell  Espero  to  take  you  there 
some  day.  You  will  not  only  find  the  grand 
72 


entrance  blocked  with  wine  casks,  but  my  In  an 

lady's    boudoir    plastered    over   with   cheap  ^"^  , 

Kjctycictt 
green  paper  and  rented  as  cheaper  lodgings 

to  still  cheaper  tenants.     Bah  !  " 

Then  the  Professor,  dropping  easily  and 
gracefully  into  a  style  of  delivery  as  stilted 
as  if  he  were  remembering  the  very  words 
of  some  old  chronicle,  told  me  how  she  had 
lived  in  this  grand  palace  during  the  years 
of  her  splendor,  the  pride  and  delight  of  all 
who  came  under  her  magic  spell,  as  easily 
Queen  of  Venice  as  Venice  was  Queen  of  the 
Sea.  How  at  thirty,  then  in  the  full  radi- 
ance of  her  beauty,  beloved  and  besought  by 
every  hand  that  could  touch  her  own,  painters 
vied  with  each  other  in  matching  the  tints  of 
her  marvelous  skin  ;  sculptors  begged  for 
models  of  her  feet  to  grace  their  master- 
pieces ;  poets  sang  her  praises,  and  the  first 
musicians  of  Italy  wrote  the  songs  that  her 
lovers  poured  out  beneath  her  windows. 
How  there  had  come  a  night  when  suddenly 
the  whole  course  of  her  life  was  changed,  — 
the  night  of  a  great  ball  given  at  one  of  the 
old  palaces  on  the  Grand  Canal,  the  festivi- 
ties ending  with  a  pageant  that  revived  the 
sumptuous  days  of  the  Republic,  in  which 
the  Contessa  herself  was  to  take  part. 

When  the  long-expected  hour  arrived,  she 

73 


In  an       was  seen  to  step  into  her  gondola,  attired  in 
^'^^  ,       a  dress  of  the  period,  a  marvel  of  velvet  and 
cloth-of-gold.     Then  she  disappeared  as  com- 
pletely from  human  sight  as  if  the  waters  of 
the  canal  had  closed  over  her  forever. 

For  days  all  investigation  proved  fruitless. 
The  only  definite  clue  came  from  her  gon- 
dolier, who  said  that  soon  after  the  gondola 
had  left  the  steps  of  her  palace,  the  Contessa 
ordered  him  to  return  home  at  once  ;  that 
on  reaching  the  landing  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  veil  and  reentered  the  palace.  Later 
it  was  whispered  that  for  many  weeks  she 
had  not  left  her  apartments.  Then  she  sent 
for  her  father  confessor,  and  at  a  secret 
interview  announced  her  decision  never  again 
to  appear  to  the  world. 

At  this  point  of  the  story  the  Professor 
had  risen  from  his  seat  and  poured  half  the 
flagon  in  his  glass.  He  was  evidently  as 
much  absorbed  in  the  recital  as  if  it  had  all 
happened  yesterday.  I  could  see,  too,  that  it 
appealed  to  those  quaint,  romantic  views  of 
life  which,  for  all  their  absurdities,  endeared 
the  old  fellow  to  every  one  who  knew  him. 

"For  a  year,"  he  continued,  "this  seclu- 
sion was  maintained ;  no  one  saw  the  Con- 
tessa, not  even  her  own  servants.    Her  meals 
were  served  behind  a  screen.     Of  course,  all 
74 


Venice  was  agog.    Every  possible  solution  of  In  an 
so  strange  and  unexpected  a  seclusion  was  ^^^^^^ 
suggested  and  discussed. 

"  In  the  beginning  of  the  following  winter 
vague  rumors  reached  the  good  father's  ears. 
One  morning  he  left  his  devotions,  and,  way- 
laying her  duenna  outside  the  palace  garden, 
pressed  his  rosary  into  her  hands  and  said  : 
*  Take  this  to  the  Contessa.'  "  Here  the  Pro- 
fessor became  very  dramatic,  holding  out  his 
hand  with  a  quick  gesture,  as  if  it  clasped  the 
rosary.  "'Tell  her  that  to-night,  when  San 
Giorgio  strikes  twelve,  I  shall  be  at  the  outer 
gate  of  the  palace  and  must  be  admitted.'  " 

Then,  pacing  up  and  down  the  narrow 
arbor,  his  face  flushed,  his  eyes  glistening, 
the  old  fellow  told  the  rest  of  the  story. 
"When,"  said  he,  "the  hour  arrived,  the 
heavy  grated  door,  the  same  through  which 
you  can  now  see  the  wine  casks,  was  cau- 
tiously opened.  A  moment  later  the  priest 
was  ushered  into  a  dimly  lighted  room,  luxu- 
riously furnished,  and  screened  at  one  end 
by  a  silken  curtain,  behind  which  sat  the 
Contessa.  She  listened  while  he  told  her 
how  all  Venice  was  outraged  at  her  conduct, 
many  hearts  being  grieved  and  many  tongues 
dropping  foul  slander.  He  remonstrated 
with  her  about  the  life  she  was  leading,  con- 

75 


In  an  demning  its  selfishness  and  threatening  the 
^'^  ,  severest  disciphne.  But  neither  threats  nor 
the  voice  of  slander  intimidated  the  Contessa. 
She  steadfastly  avowed  that  her  life  had  been 
blameless,  and  despite  the  earnest  appeals  of 
the  priest  persisted  in  the  determination  to 
live  the  rest  of  her  days  in  quiet  and  seclu- 
sion. The  most  he  was  able  to  effect  was  a 
promise  that  within  a  month  she  would  open 
the  doors  of  her  palace  for  one  more  great 
ball.  Her  friends  would  then  be  reassured 
and  her  enemies  silenced. 

"  The  records  show  that  no  such  festival 
had  been  seen  in  Venice  for  many  years. 
The  palace  was  a  blaze  of  light.  So  great 
was  the  crush  of  gondolas  bringing  their 
beauteous  freight  of  richly  dressed  Vene- 
tians, that  the  traffic  of  the  canal  was  ob- 
structed for  hours.  Ten  o'clock  came,  eleven, 
and  still  there  was  no  Contessa  to  welcome 
her  guests.  Strange  stories  were  set  afloat. 
It  was  whispered  that  a  sudden  illness  had 
overtaken  her.  Then,  as  the  hours  wore  on, 
the  terrible  rumor  gained  credence,  that  she 
had  been  murdered  by  her  servants,  and  that 
the  report  of  her  illness  was  only  a  cloak  to 
conceal  their  crime. 

"  While  the  excitement  was  at  its  height, 
a  man,  in  the  costume  of  a  herald,  appeared 
76 


in  the  great  salon  and  announced  the  arrival  In  an 

of  the  hostess.     As  the  hour  struck  twelve  a  91'^  , 

Garden 

curtain  was  drawn  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
room,  revealing  the  Contessa  seated  upon  a 
dais,  superbly  attired  in  velvet  and  lace,  and 
brilliant  with  jewels.  When  the  hum  and 
wonder  of  the  surprise  had  ceased,  she  arose, 
stood  like  a  queen  receiving  the  homage  of 
her  subjects,  and,  welcoming  her  guests  to  her 
palace,  bade  them  dance  on  until  the  sun 
rose  over  the  Lido.  Then  the  curtains  were 
drawn,  and  so  ended  the  last  sight  of  the 
Contessa  in  Venice.  Her  palace  was  never 
opened  again.  Later  she  disappeared  com- 
pletely, and  the  spiders  spun  their  webs 
across  the  threshold. 

"  Years  afterward,  a  man  repairing  a  high 
chimney  on  a  roof  overlooking  this  very  gar- 
den—  the  chimney  can  still  be  seen  from 
the  far  corner  below  the  landing  —  saw  en- 
tering the  arbor  a  noble  lady,  leaning  upon 
the  arm  of  a  distinguished  looking  man  of 
about  her  own  age.  In  the  lady  he  recog- 
nized the  Contessa. 

"  Little  by  little,  the  story  came  out.  It 
appeared  that  immediately  after  the  ball  she 
had  moved  to  this  chateau,  a  part  of  her  own 
estates,  which  had  been  quietly  fitted  up  and 
restored.    It  was  then  remembered  that  soon 

77 


Garden 


In  an  after  the  chateau  had  been  finished,  a  certain 
^1^^^.,  Marquis,  well  known  in  France,  who  had 
adored  the  Contessa  for  years,  and  was  really 
the  only  man  she  ever  loved,  had  disappeared 
from  Paris.  He  was  traced  at  the  time  to 
Milan  and  Genoa,  and  finally  to  Venice. 
There  all  trace  of  him  was  lost.  Such  disap- 
pearances were  not  uncommon  in  those  days, 
and  it  was  often  safer  even  for  one's  relatives 
to  shrug  their  shoulders  and  pass  on.  Further 
confirmation  came  from  the  gondolier,  who 
had  landed  him  the  night  of  his  arrival  at 
the  water-gate  of  this  garden,  —  just  where 
we  landed  an  hour  ago,  —  and  who,  on  hear- 
ing of  his  supposed  murder,  had  kept  silent 
upon  his  share  in  the  suspected  crime.  In- 
quiries conducted  by  the  State  corroborated 
these  facts. 

"Look  around  you,  mon  ami,''  exclaimed 
the  Professor  suddenly.  "  Underneath  this 
very  arbor  have  they  sat  for  hours,  and  in  the 
window  of  that  crumbling  balcony  have  they 
listened  to  the  low  sound  of  each  other's 
voice  in  the  still  twilight,  the  world  shut 
out,  the  vine-covered  wall  their  only  horizon. 
Here,  as  the  years  passed  unheeded,  they 
dreamed  their  lives  away.  V amour,  t amour, 
vons  etes  tout  puissant  !  " 

The  Professor  stopped,  turned  as  if  in  pain, 
78 


and  rested  his  head  on  his  arm.     For  some  In  an 

moments   neither   of  us    spoke.      Was    the  ^     , 

1  •  1     T   1     1   f •  1        1       1     Garden 

romance  to  which   1  had  hstened  only  the 

romance  of  the  Contessa,  or  had  he  uncon- 
sciously woven  into  its  meshes  some  of  the 
silken  threads  of  his  own  past }  When  he 
raised  his  head  I  said :  "  But,  Professor,  you 
have  not  told  me  the  secret  she  kept  from 
the  priest  Why  did  she  shut  herself  up } 
What  was  it  that  altered  the  whole  course  of 
her  life.?" 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  .-"  Then  listen.  She 
had  overheard  her  gondolier  say,  as  she 
stepped  into  her  gondola  on  the  fatal  night 
of  the  great  fete  at  the  Foscari,  *  The  Con- 
tessa is  growing  old ;  she  is  no  longer  as 
beautiful  as  she  was.' " 

I  looked  at  the  old  fellow  to  see  if  he  were 
really  in  earnest,  and,  throwing  back  my  head, 
laughed  heartily.  For  the  first  time  in  all 
my  intercourse  with  him  I  saw  the  angry 
color  mount  to  his  cheeks. 

He  turned  quickly,  looked  at  me  in  as- 
tonishment, as  if  unable  to  believe  his  ears, 
and  said  sharply,  knitting  his  brows,  "  Why 
do  you  laugh  .?  " 

"  It  seems  so  absurd,"  I  replied.  "  What 
did  she  expect ;  to  be  always  a  goddess  .-*  " 

"  Ah,  there  you  go  ! "  he  burst  out  again, 

79 


Garden 


In  an  with  flashing  eyes.  "That  is  just  like  a 
9J^  r  cold-blooded  materialist.  I  hate  your  mod- 
ern  Shylock,  who  can  see  a  pound  of  flesh 
cut  from  a  human  heart  with  no  care  for  the 
hot  blood  that  follows.  Have  you  no  sym- 
pathy deep  down  in  your  soul  for  a  woman 
when  she  realizes  for  the  first  time  that  her 
hold  on  the  world  is  slipping }  Can  you  not 
understand  the  agony  of  the  awakening  from 
a  long  dream  of  security  and  supremacy, 
when  she  finds  that  others  are  taking  her 
place .''  The  daily  watching  for  the  loss  of 
color,  the  fullness  of  the  waist,  the  penciling 
of  care-lines  about  the  eyes  .''  We  men  have 
bodily  force  and  mental  vigor,  and  sometimes 
lifelong  integrity,  to  commend  us,  and  as  we 
grow  older  and  the  first  two  fail,  the  last 
serves  us  best  of  all ;  but  what  has  a  woman 
like  the  Contessa  left  ?  I  am  not  talking  of  an 
ordinary  woman,  nor  of  all  the  good  daugh- 
ters, good  wives,  and  good  mothers  in  the 
world.  You  expect  in  such  women  the  graces 
of  virtue,  duty,  and  resignation.  I  am  talk- 
ing of  a  superb  creature  whom  the  good  God 
created  just  to  show  the  world  what  the  an- 
gels looked  like.  I  insist  that  before  you 
laugh  you  must  put  yourself  in  the  place  of 
this  noble  Contessa  whom  all  Venice  adored, 
whose  reign  for  fifteen  years  had  been  su- 
80 


preme,  whose  beauty  was  to  her  something  In  an 
tangible,  a  weapon,  a  force,  an  atmosphere.  ^  , 
She  had  all  the  other  charms  that  adorned 
the  women  of  her  day,  good-humor,  a  rich 
mind,  charity,  and  wit,  but  so  had  a  hundred 
other  Venetians  of  her  class.  I  insist  that 
before  censuring  her,  you  enter  the  sa/ou  and 
watch  with  her  the  faces  of  her  guests,  not- 
ing her  eagerness  to  detect  the  first  glance 
of  dehght  or  disappointment,  and  her  joy  or 
chagrin  as  she  reads  the  verdict  in  their 
eyes.  Can  you  not  realize  that  in  a  beauty 
such  as  hers  there  is  an  essence,  a  spirit,  a 
something  divine  and  ethereal  ?  A  some- 
thing like  the  bloom  on  these  grapes,  adding 
the  exquisite  to  their  lusciousness ;  like  the 
pure  color  of  the  diamond,  intensifying  its 
flash .''  A  something  that,  in  addition  to  all 
her  other  qualities,  makes  a  woman  tran- 
scendent and  should  make  her  immortal  ? 
We  men  long  for  this  divine  quality,  adore  it, 
go  mad  over  it ;  and  yet  when  it  has  faded, 
with  an  inconstancy  and  neglect  which  to  me 
is  one  of  the  enigmas  of  human  nature,  we 
shrug  our  shoulders,  laugh,  and  pass  on. 
Believe  me,  inou  ami,  when  that  gondolier 
confirmed  the  looking-glass  of  the  Contessa, 
his  words  fell  upon  her  ears  like  earth  upon 
her  coffin." 

8i 


In  an  If  the  Professor's  emotion  at  the  close  of 

^^■^  the  story  was  a  surprise  to  me,  this  frenzied 
outburst,  illogical  and  quixotic  as  it  seemed, 
was  equally  unexpected.  I  could  hardly  re- 
alize that  this  torrent  of  fiery  passion  and 
pent-up  energy  had  burst  from  the  frail,  plain 
little  body  before  me.  Again  and  again,  as  I 
looked  at  him,  the  thought  ran  through  my 
mind.  Whom  had  he  loved  like  that ,-'  What 
had  come  between  himself  and  his  own  Con- 
tessa?  Why  was  this  man  an  exile  —  this 
cheery,  precise,  ever  courteous  dignified  old 
thoroughbred,  with  his  dry,  crackling  exterior, 
and  his  volcano  of  a  heart  beneath  .'*  Or  was 
it  Venice,  with  her  wealth  of  traditions, — 
traditions  he  had  made  his  own, — that  had 
turned  his  head  ? 

Long  after  the  Professor  left  the  garden,  I 
sat  looking  about  me,  noting  the  broken  walls 
overhung  with  matted  vines,  and  the  little  liz- 
ards darting  in  and  out.  Then  I  strolled  on 
and  entered  the  doorway  of  the  old  chateau, 
and  looked  long  and  steadily  at  the  ruined 
balcony,  half  buried  in  a  tangle  of  roses,  the 
shadows  of  their  waving  blossoms  splashing 
the  weather  stained  marble ;  and  thence  to 
the  apartment  above,  where  these  same  blos- 
soms thrust  themselves  far  into  its  gloom,  as 
if  they  too  would  search  for  the  vision  of  love- 
82 


liness  that  had  vanished.  Then  I  wandered /«  «;« 
into  an  alcove  sheltering  the  remains  of  an  q  ^  „ 
altar  and  font  —  the  very  chapel,  no  doubt, 
where  the  good  priest  had  married  her;  on 
through  the  unkept  walks  bordered  on  each 
side  by  rows  of  ancient  box,  with  here  and 
there  a  gap  where  the  sharp  tooth  of  some 
winter  more  cruel  than  the  rest  had  bitten 
deep,  and  so  out  again  into  the  open  garden, 
where  I  sat  down  under  a  great  tree  that 
sheltered  the  head  of  a  Madonna  built  into 
the  wall  —  the  work  of  Canova,  the  Professor 
had  told  me. 

Despite  my  own  convictions,  I  seem  to 
feel  the  presence  of  these  spirits  of  the  past 
that  the  Professor,  in  his  simple,  earnest  way, 
had  conjured  up  before  me,  and  to  see  on 
every  hand  evidences  of  their  long  life  of  hap- 
piness. The  ruined  balcony,  with  its  matted 
rose  vines,  had  now  a  deeper  meaning.  How 
often  had  the  beautiful  Venetian  leaned  over 
this  same  iron  grating  and  watched  her  lover 
in  the  garden  below  !  On  how  many  nights, 
made  glorious  by  the  radiance  of  an  Italian 
moon,  had  they  listened  to  the  soft  music  of 
passing  gondolas  beyond  the  garden  walls  } 

The  whole  romance,  in  spite  of  its  im- 
probability and  my  thoughtless  laughter,  had 
affected  me  deeply.     Why,  I  could  not  tell. 

83 


In  an       Perhaps  it  was  the  Professor's  enthusiasm ; 

2*^^  ,       perhaps  his  reverence  for  the  beauty  of  wo- 

Garden     ^         ^  r         ^        ^  ,  ^r 

man,  as   well   as   lor   the    Contessa  herself. 

Perhaps  he  had  really  been  recalling  a  chap- 
ter out  of  his  own  past,  before  exile  and  pov- 
erty had  made  him  a  wanderer  and  a  dreamer. 
Perhaps! — Yes,  perhaps  it  was  the  thought 
of  the  long,  quiet  life  of  the  Contessa  with  her 
lover  in  this  garden. 
84 


AMONG   THE   FISHERMEN 

KNOW  best  the  fishing  quarter 
of  Ponte  Lungo  and  the  dis- 
trict near  by,  from  the  wooden 
bridge  to  the  lagoon,  with  the 
side  canal  running  along  the 
Fo7idamenta  della  Pallada.  This  to  me  is  not 
only  the  most  picturesque  quarter  of  Venice, 
but  quite  the  most  picturesque  spot  I  know 
in  Europe,  except,  perhaps,  Scutari  on  the 
Golden  Horn. 

This  quality  of  the  picturesque  saturates 
Venice.  You  find  it  in  her  stately  struc- 
tures ;  in  her  spacious  Piazza,  with  its  noble 
Campanile,  clock  tower,  and  facade  of  San 
Marco  ;  in  her  tapering  towers,  deep-wrought 
bronze,  and  creamy  marble ;  in  her  cluster 
of  butterfly  sails  on  far-off,  wide  horizons  ; 
in  her  opalescent  dawns,  flaming  sunsets, 
and  star-lit  summer  nights.  You  find  it  in 
the  gatherings  about  her  countless  bridges 
spanning  dark  water-ways  ;  in  the  ever-chan- 
ging color  of  crowded  markets ;  in  lazy  gar- 
dens lolling  over  broken  walls;  in  twisted 
canals,  quaint  doorways,  and  soggy,  ooze- 
covered  landing-steps.  You  find  it,  too,  in 
many  a  dingy  palace  —  many  a  lop-sided  old 

85 


Among 
the 

Fisher- 
men 


palace  — with  door-jambs  and  windows  askew, 
with  Untels  craning  their  heads  over  the  edge, 
ready  to  plunge  headlong  into  the  canal  be- 
low. 

The  little  devils  of  rot  and  decay,  deep 
down  in  the  water,  are  at  the  bottom  of  all 
this  settling  and  toppling  of  jamb  and  lintel. 
They  are  really  the  guardians  of  the  pictur- 
esque. 

Search  any  fagade  in  Venice,  from  flow- 
line  to  cornice,  and  you  cannot  find  two  lines 
plumb  or  parallel.  This  is  because  these 
imps  of  destruction  have  helped  the  teredo 
to  munch  and  gnaw  and  bore,  undermining 
foundation  pile,  grillage,  and  bed-stone.  If 
you  listen  some  day  over  the  side  of  your 
gondola,  you  will  hear  one  of  these  old  piles 
creak  and  groan  as  he  sags  and  settles,  and 
then  up  comes  a  bubble,  as  if  all  the  fiends 
below  had  broken  into  a  laugh  at  their  tri- 
umph. 

This  change  goes  on  everywhere.  No 
sooner  does  some  inhabitant  of  the  earth 
build  a  monstrosity  of  right-angle  triangles, 
than  the  little  imps  set  to  work.  They  know 
that  Mother  Nature  detests  a  straight  line, 
and  so  they  summon  all  the  fairy  forces  of 
sun,  wind,  and  frost,  to  break  and  bend  and 
twist,  while  they  scuttle  and  bore  and  dig, 


until  some  fine  morning  after  a  siege  of  many  Among 
years,  you  stumble  upon  their  victim.     The^f 
doge  who  built  it  would  shake  his  head  in  ff^^ii 
despair,   but  you  forgive   the   tireless    little 
devils  —  they  have   made  it   so  delightfully 
picturesque. 

To  be  exact,  there  are  really  fewer  straight 
lines  in  Venice  than  in  any  place  in  Europe. 
This  is  because  all  the  islands  are  spiked  full 
of  rotting  piles,  holding  up  every  structure 
within  their  limits.  The  constant  settling  of 
these  wooden  supports  has  dropped  the  Cam- 
panile nearly  a  foot  out  of  plumb  on  the  east- 
ern fagade,  threatened  the  destruction  of  the 
southwest  corner  of  the  Doges'  Palace,  rolled 
the  exquisite  mosaic  pavement  of  San  Marco 
into  waves  of  stone,  and  almost  toppled  into 
the  canal  many  a  church  tower  and  garden 
wall. 

Then  again  there  are  localities  about  Ven- 
ice where  it  seems  that  every  other  quality 
except  that  of  the  picturesque  has  long  since 
been  annihilated.  You  feel  it  especially  in 
the  narrow  side  canal  of  the  Public  Garden, 
in  the  region  back  of  the  Rialto,  through  the 
Fruit  Market,  and  in  the  narrow  streets  be- 
yond—  so  narrow  that  you  can  touch  both 
sides  in  passing,  the  very  houses  leaning  over 
like  gossiping  old  crones,  their  foreheads  al- 

87 


Among 
the 

Fisher- 
men 


most  touching.  You  feel  it  too  in  the  gardens 
along  the  Giudecca,  with  their  long  arbors 
and  tangled  masses  of  climbing  roses  ;  in  the 
interiors  of  many  courtyards  along  the  Grand 
Canal,  with  pozzo  and  surrounding  pillars  sup- 
porting the  rooms  above  ;  in  the  ship  and 
gondola  repair-yards  of  the  lagoons  and  San 
Trovaso,  and  more  than  all  in  the  fishing 
quarters,  the  one  beyond  Ponte  Lungo  and 
those  near  the  Arsenal,  out  towards  San  Pie- 
tro  di  Castcllo. 

This  district  of  Ponte  Lungo  —  the  one  I 
love  most  —  lies  across  the  Giudecca,  on  the 
"  Island  of  the  Giudecca,"  as  it  is  called,  and 
is  really  an  outskirt,  or  rather  a  suburb  of  the 
Great  City.  There  are  no  grand  palaces  here. 
Sometimes,  tucked  away  in  a  garden,  you  will 
find  an  old  chateau,  such  as  the  Contessa  oc- 
cupied, and  between  the  bridge  and  the  fon- 
damenta  there  is  a  row  of  great  buildings, 
bristling  with  giant  chimneys,  that  might  once 
have  been  warehouses  loaded  with  the  wealth 
of  the  East,  but  which  are  now  stuffed  full  of 
old  sails,  snarled  seines,  great  fish-baskets, 
oars,  fishermen,  fisher-wives,  fisher-children, 
rags,  old  clothes,  bits  of  carpet,  and  gay, 
blossoming  plants  in  nondescript  pots.  I 
may  be  wrong  about  these  old  houses  being 
stuffed  full  of  these  several  different  kinds  of 


material,  from  their  damp  basement  floors  to  Among 
the   fourth    story  garrets   under  baking  red^^ 
tiles  ;  but  they  certainly  look  so,  for  all  these  j,ien 
things,  including  the  fisher-folk  themselves, 
are  either  hanging  out  or  thrust  out  of  win- 
dow, balcony,  or  doorway,  thus  proving  con- 
clusively the  absurdity  of  there  being  even 
standing  room  inside. 

Fronting  the  doors  of  these  buildings  are 
little  rickety  platforms  of  soggy  planks,  and 
running  out  from  them  foot-walks  of  a  single 
board,  propped  up  out  of  the  wet  on  poles, 
leading  to  fishing-smacks  with  sails  of  orange 
and  red,  the  decks  lumbered  with  a  miscel- 
laneous lot  of  fishing-gear  and  unassorted  sea- 
truck  —  buckets,  seines,  booms,  dip-nets,  and 
the  like. 

Aboard  these  boats  the  fishermen  are  bus- 
ily engaged  in  scrubbing  the  sides  and  rails, 
and  emptying  the  catch  of  the  morning  into 
their  great  wicker  baskets,  which  either  float 
in  the  water  or  are  held  up  on  poles  by  long 
strings  of  stout  twine. 

All  about  are  more  boats,  big  and  little  ; 
row-boats  ;  storage-boats  piled  high  with 
empty  crab  baskets,  or  surrounded  with  a 
circle  of  other  baskets  moored  to  cords  and 
supported  by  a  frame  of  hop-poles,  filled  with 
fish  or  crabs ;  barcos  from  across  the  lagoon, 

89 


Atnong 
the 

Fisher- 
men 


laden  with  green  melons  ;  or  lighters  on  their 
way  to  the  Dogana  from  the  steamers  an- 
chored behind  the  Giudecca. 

Beyond  and  under  the  little  bridge  that 
leads  up  the  Pallada,  the  houses  are  smaller 
and  only  flank  one  side  of  the  narrow  canal. 
On  the  other  side,  once  an  old  garden,  there 
is  now  a  long,  rambling  wall,  with  here  and 
there  an  opening  through  which,  to  your  sur- 
prise, you  catch  the  drooping  figure  of  a  poor, 
forlorn  mule,  condemned  for  some  crime  of 
his  ancestors  to  go  round  and  round  in  a 
treadmill,  grinding  refuse  brick.  Along  the 
quay  or  fondanienta  of  this  narrow  canal,  al- 
ways shady  after  ten  o'clock,  lie  sprawled  the 
younger  members  of  these  tenements  —  the 
children,  bareheaded,  barefooted,  and  most 
of  them  barebacked  ;  while  their  mothers 
and  sisters  choke  up  the  doorways,  stringing 
beads,  making  lace,  sitting  in  bunches  listen- 
ing to  a  story  by  some  old  crone,  or  breaking 
out  into  song,  the  whole  neighborhood  joining 
in  the  chorus. 

Up  at  the  farther  end  of  the  Pallada  and 
under  another  wooden  bridge,  where  two  slips 
of  canals  meet,  there  is  a  corner  that  has 
added  more  sketches  to  my  portfolio  than 
any  single  spot  in  Venice.  An  old  fisherman 
lives  here,  perhaps  a  dozen  old  fishermen ; 
90 


they  come  and  go  all  the  time.  There  is  ?i  Among 
gate  with  a  broken  door,  and  a  neglected  ^f, 
garden  trampled  down  by  many  feet,  a  half-  men 
ruined  wall  with  fig-trees  and  oleanders  peep- 
ing over  from  the  garden  next  door,  a  row  of 
ragged,  straggling  trees  lining  the  water's 
edge,  and  more  big  fish  and  crab  baskets  scat- 
tered all  about,  —  baskets  big  as  feather-beds, 
—  and  festoons  of  nets  hung  to  the  branches 
of  the  trees  or  thrown  over  the  patched-up 
fences,  —  every  conceivable  and  inconceiv- 
able kind  of  fishing  plunder  that  could  litter 
up  the  premises  of  dipescatore  of  the  lagoon. 
In  and  out  of  all  this  debris  swarm  the  chil- 
dren, playing  baby-house  in  the  big  baskets, 
asleep  under  the  overturned  boat  with  the 
new  patch  on  her  bottom,  or  leaning  over  the 
wall  catching  little  crabs  that  go  nibbling 
along  a  few  inches  below  the  water-line. 

In  this  picturesque  spot,  within  biscuit- 
throw  of  this  very  corner,  I  have  some 
very  intimate  and  charming  friends  —  little 
Amelia,  the  child  model,  and  young  Antonio, 
who  is  determined  to  be  a  gondolier  when  he 
grows  up,  and  who,  perhaps,  could  earn  a  bet- 
ter living  by  posing  for  some  sculptor  as  a 
Greek  god.  Then,  too,  there  is  his  mother, 
the  Signora  Marcelli,  who  sometimes  reminds 
me   of    my   other   old   friend,   the    "Grand 

91 


Among 
the 

Fisher- 
men 


Duchess  of  the  Riva,"  who  keeps  the  caffe 
near  the  Poiite  Vcncta  3Tarina. 

The  Signora  Marcelli,  however,  lacks  most 
of  the  endearing  qualities  of  the  Duchess  ; 
one  in  particular  —  a  soft,  musical  voice.  If 
the  Signora  is  in  temporary  want  of  the  ser- 
vices of  one  of  her  brood  of  children,  it  never 
occurs  to  her,  no  matter  where  she  may  be, 
to  send  another  member  of  the  household  in 
search  of  the  missing  child ;  she  simply 
throws  back  her  head,  fills  her  lungs,  and  be- 
gins a  crescendo  which  terminates  in  a  fortis- 
simo, so  shrill  and  far-reaching  that  it  could 
call  her  offspring  back  from  the  dead.  Should 
her  husband,  the  Signor  Marcelli,  come  in 
some  wet  morning  late  from  the  lagoon,  —  say 
at  nine  o'clock,  instead  of  an  hour  after  day- 
light, —  the  Signora  begins  on  her  crescendo 
when  she  first  catches  sight  of  his  boat  slowly 
poled  along  the  canal.  Thereupon  the  Si- 
gnora fills  the  surrounding  air  with  certain 
details  of  her  family  life,  including  her  present 
attitude  of  mind  toward  the  Signore,  and  with 
such  volume  and  vim  that  you  think  she  fully 
intends  breaking  every  bone  under  his  tar- 
paulins when  he  lands,  —  and  she  is  quite  able 
physically  to  do  it, — until  you  further  notice 
that  it  makes  about  as  much  impression  upon 
the  Signore  as  the  rain  upon  his  oilskins.  It 
92 


makes  still  less  on  his  neighbors,  who  have  Among 
listened  to    similar  outbursts  for  years,  and  ^J:f.  , 
have  come  to  regard  them  quite  as  they  would  nien 
the   announcement  by  one  of  the  Signora's 
hens  that  she  had  just  laid  an  Q.gg —  an  event 
of  too  much  importance  to  be  passed  over  in 
silence. 

When  the  Signer  Marcelli  arrives  off  the 
little  wooden  landing-ladder  facing  his  house, 
and,  putting  things  shipshape  about  the  boat, 
enters  his  doorway,  thrashing  the  water  from 
his  tarpaulin  hat  as  he  walks,  the  Signora, 
from  sheer  loss  of  breath,  subsides  long 
enough  to  overhaul  a  unique  collection  of  dry 
clothing  hanging  to  the  rafters,  from  which 
she  selects  a  coat  patched  like  Joseph's  of  old, 
with  trousers  to  match.  These  she  carries 
to  the  Signore,  who  puts  them  on  in  dead 
silence,  reappearing  in  a  few  moments  bare- 
footed but  dry,  a  red  worsted  cap  on  his  head, 
and  a  short  pipe  in  his  mouth.  Then  he 
drags  up  a  chair,  and,  still  silent  as  a  graven 
image, — he  has  not  yet  spoken  a  word,  —  con- 
tinues smoking,  looking  furtively  up  at  the 
sky,  or  leaning  over  listlessly  and  watching 
the  chickens  that  gather  about  his  feet.  Now 
and  again  he  picks  up  a  rooster  or  strokes  a 
hen  as  he  would  a  kitten.     Nothing  more. 

Only  then  does  the  Signora  subside,  bring- 

93 


Among 
the 

Fisher- 
men 


ing  out  a  fragment  of  polenta  and  a  pot  of 
coffee,  which  the  fisherman  divides  with  his 
chickens,  the  greedy  ones  jumping  on  his 
knees.  I  feel  assured  that  it  is  neither  dis- 
cretion nor  domestic  tact,  nor  even  uncommon 
sense,  that  forbids  a  word  of  protest  to  drop 
from  the  Signore's  lips.  It  is  rather  a  cer- 
tain philosophy,  born  of  many  dull  days  spent 
on  the  lagoon,  and  many  lively  hours  passed 
with  the  Signora  Marcelli,  resulting  in  some 
such  apothegm  as,  "Gulls  scream  and  wo- 
men scold,  but  fishing  and  life  go  on  just  the 
same." 

There  is,  too,  the  other  old  fisherman,  whose 
name  I  forget,  who  lives  in  the  little  shed  of 
a  house  next  to  the  long  wall,  and  who  is  for- 
ever scrubbing  his  crab  baskets,  or  lifting 
them  up  and  down,  and  otherwise  disporting 
himself  in  an  idiotic  and  most  aggravating 
way.  He  happens  to  own  an  old  water-logged 
boat  that  has  the  most  delicious  assortment  of 
barnacles  and  seaweed  clinging  to  its  sides. 
It  is  generally  piled  high  with  great  baskets, 
patched  and  mended,  with  red  splotches  all 
over  them,  and  bits  of  broken  string  dangling 
to  their  sides  or  hanging  from  their  open 
throats.  There  are  also  a  lot  of  rheumatic, 
palsied  old  poles  that  reach  over  this  ruin  of  a 
craft,  to  which  are  tied  still  more  baskets  of 
94 


still  more  delicious  qualities  of  burnt  umber  Among 
and  Hooker's-green  moss.     Behind  this  boat  ^^^^ 
is  a  sun-scorched  wall  of  broken  brick,  csi-men 
ressed  all  day  by  a  tender  old  mother  of  a  vine, 
who  winds  her  arms  about  it  and  splashes  its 
hot  cheeks  with  sprays  of  cool  shadows. 

When,  some  years  ago,  I  discovered  this 
combination  of  boat,  basket,  and  shadow- 
flecked  wall,  and  in  an  unguarded  moment 
begged  the  fisherman  to  cease  work  for  the 
morning  at  my  expense,  and  smoke  a  pipe  of 
peace  in  his  doorway,  until  I  could  transfer 
its  harmonies  to  my  canvas,  I  spoke  hur- 
riedly and  without  due  consideration ;  for 
since  that  time,  whenever  this  contemporary 
of  the  original  Biicentoro  gets  into  one  of  my 
compositions, — these  old  fish-boats  last  for- 
ever and  are  too  picturesque  for  even  the 
little  devils  to  worry  over,  —  this  same  fisher- 
man immediately  dries  his  sponge,  secures 
his  baskets,  and  goes  ashore,  and  as  regularly 
demands  backsheesh  of  soldi  and  fine-cut. 
Next  summer  I  shall  buy  the  boat  and  hire 
him  to  watch  ;  it  will  be  much  cheaper. 

Then  there  are  the  two  girls  who  live  with 
their  grandmother,  in  one  end  of  an  old 
tumble-down,  next  to  the  little  wooden  bridge 
that  the  boats  lie  under.  She  keeps  a  small 
cook-shop,  where  she  boils  and  then  toasts, 

95 


AfHon^ 
the 

Fisher- 
men 


in  thin  strips,  slices  of  green-skinned  pump- 
kin, whicli  the  girls  sell  to  the  fishermen  on 
the  boats,  or  hawk  about  the  fondamenta. 
As  the  whole  pumpkin  can  be  bought  for  a 
li7'a,  you  can  imagine  what  a  wee  bit  of  a  cop- 
per coin  it  must  be  that  pays  for  a  fragment 
of  its  golden  interior,  even  when  the  skilled 
labor  of  the  old  woman  is  added  to  the  cost 
of  the  raw  material. 

Last  of  all  are  the  boys ;  of  no  particular 
size,  age,  nationality,  or  condition, — just 
boys  ;  little  rascally,  hatless,  shoeless,  shirt- 
less, trouser  —  everything-less,  except  noise 
and  activity.  They  yell  like  Comanches ; 
they  crawl  between  the  legs  of  your  easel  and 
look  up  between  your  knees  into  your  face; 
they  steal  your  brushes  and  paints  ;  they  cry 
"  Soldi,  soldi,  Signore, "  until  life  becomes  a 
burden  ;  they  spend  their  days  in  one  pro- 
longed whoop  of  hilarity,  their  nights  in  con- 
cocting fresh  deviltry,  which  they  put  into 
practice  the  moment  you  appear  in  the  morn- 
ing. When  you  throw  one  of  them  into  the 
canal,  in  the  vain  hope  that  his  head  will  stick 
in  the  mud  and  so  he  be  drowned  dead,  half 
a  dozen  jump  in  after  him  in  a  delirium  of  en- 
joyment. When  you  turn  one  upside  down 
and  shake  your  own  color-tubes  out  of  his 
rags,  he  calls  upon  all  the  saints  to  witness 
96 


that  the  other  fellow,  the  boy  Beppo  or  Carlo,  Among 
or  some  other  "o"  or  "i,"  put  them  there, ^f.^ 
and  that  up  to  this  very  moment  he  was  un-  7nen 
conscious  of  their  existence  ;  when  you  bela- 
bor the  largest   portion  of  his  surface  with 
your  folding  stool  or  T-square,  he  is  either  in 
a  state  of  collapse  from  excessive  laughter  or 
screaming  with  assumed  agony,  which  lasts 
until  he  squirms  himself  into  freedom  ;  then 
he  goes  wild,  turning  hand-springs  and  de- 
scribing no  end  of  geometrical  figures  in  the 
air,  using  his  stubby  little  nose  for  a  centre 
and  his  grimy  thumbs  and  outspread  fingers 
for  compasses. 

All  these  side  scenes,  however,  constitute 
only  part  of  the  family  life  of  the  Venetian 
fishermen.  If  you  are  up  early  in  the  morn- 
ing you  will  see  their  boats  moving  through 
the  narrow  canals  to  the  fish  market  on  the 
Grand  Canal  above  the  Rialto,  loaded  to  the 
water's  edge  with  hundreds  of  bushels  of 
crawling  green  crabs  stowed  away  in  the  great 
baskets ;  or  piles  of  opalescent  fish  heaped 
upon  the  deck,  covered  with  bits  of  sailcloth, 
or  glistening  in  the  morning  sun.  Earlier,  out 
on  the  lagoon,  in  the  gray  dawn,  you  will  see 
clusters  of  boats  with  the  seines  widespread, 
the  smaller  dories  scattered  here  and  there, 
hauling  or  lowering  the  spider-skein  nets. 

97 


Among 
the 

Fisher- 
men 


But  there  is  still  another  and  a  larger  fish- 
ing trade,  a  trade  not  exactly  Venetian,  al- 
though Venice  is  its  best  market.  To  this 
belong  the  fishermen  of  Chioggia  and  the  is- 
lands farther  down  the  coast.  These  men 
own  and  man  the  heavier  seagoing  craft  with 
the  red  and  orange  sails  that  make  the  water 
life  of  Venice  unique. 

Every  Saturday  a  flock  of  these  boats  will 
light  off  the  wall  of  the  Public  Garden,  their 
beaks  touching  the  marble  rail.  These  are 
Ziem's  boats  —  his  for  half  a  century  ;  nobody 
has  painted  them  in  the  afternoon  light  so 
charmingly  or  so  truthfully.  Sunday  morn- 
ing, after  mass,  they  are  off  again,  spreading 
their  gay  wings  toward  Chioggia.  On  other 
days  one  or  two  of  these  gay-plumed  birds 
will  hook  a  line  over  the  cluster  of  spiles 
near  the  wall  of  the  Riva,  below  the  arsenal 
bridge,  their  sails  swaying  in  the  soft  air, 
while  their  captains  are  buying  supplies  to 
take  to  the  fleet  twenty  miles  or  more  out  at 
sea. 

Again,  sometimes  in  the  early  dawn  or  in 
the  late  twilight,  you  will  see,  away  out  in 
still  another  fishing  quarter,  a  single  figure 
walking  slowly  in  the  water,  one  arm  towing 
his  boat,  the  other  carrying  a  bag.  Every 
now  and  then  the  figure  bends  over,  feels 
98 


about  with  his  toes,  and  then  drops  somethmg  A mon^ 
into  the  bas^.     This  is  the  mussel-gatherer  of  ^!i^! , 

FlsllBT' 

the  lagoon.  In  the  hot  summer  nights  these  ;;;^,; 
humble  toilers  of  the  sea,  with  only  straw 
mats  for  covering,  often  sleep  in  their  boats, 
tethered  to  poles  driven  into  the  yielding 
mud.  They  can  wade  waist-deep  over  many 
square  miles  of  water  space  about  Venice, 
although  to  one  in  a  gondola,  skimming  over 
the  same  glassy  surfaces,  there  seems  water 
enough  to  float  a  ship. 

These  several  grades  of  fishermen  have 
changed  but  little,  either  in  habits,  costume, 
or  the  handling  of  their  craft,  since  the  early 
days  of  the  republic.  The  boats,  too,  are  al- 
most the  same  in  construction  and  equipment, 
as  can  be  seen  in  any  of  the  pictures  of  Ca- 
naletto  and  the  painters  of  his  time.  The 
bows  of  the  larger  sea-craft  are  still  broad 
and  heavily  built,  the  rudders  big  and  cum- 
bersome, with  the  long  sweep  reaching  over 
the  after-deck ;  the  sails  are  loosely  hung 
with  easily  adjusted  booms,  to  make  room  for 
the  great  seines  which  are  swung  to  the  cross- 
trees  of  the  foremast.  The  only  boat  of 
really  modern  design,  and  this  is  rarely  used 
as  a  fishing-boat,  is  the  sandolo,  a  shallow 
skiff  drawing  but  a  few  inches  of  water,  and 
with   both   bow  and   stern    sharp   and  very 

99 


Among 
the 

Fisher- 
men 


low,  modeled  originally  for  greater  speed  in 
racing. 

Whatever  changes  have  taken  place  in  the 
political  and  social  economy  of  Venice,  they 
have  affected  but  little  these  lovers  of  the 
lagoons.  What  mattered  it  to  whom  they 
paid  taxes, — whether  to  doge,  Corsican,  Aus- 
trian, or  king,  —  there  were  as  good  iish  in 
the  sea  as  had  ever  been  caught,  and  as  long 
as  their  religion  lasted,  so  long  would  people 
eat  fish  and  Friday  come  round  every  week 
in  the  year. 

ICO 


A  GONDOLA  RACE 

lO-DAY  I  am  interested  in 
watching  a  gondolier  make  liis 
toilet  in  a  gondola  lying  at  my 
feet,  for  the  little  table  holding 
my  coffee  stands  on  a  half-round 
balcony  that  juts  quite  over  the  water-wall, 
almost  touching  the  white  tenda  of  the  boat 
From  this  point  of  vantage  I  look  down  upon 
his  craft,  tethered  to  a  huge  spile  bearing  the 
crown  and  monogram  of  the  owner  of  the 
hotel.  One  is  nobody  if  not  noble,  in  Venice. 
The  gondolier  does  not  see  me.  If  he  did 
it  would  not  disturb  him  ;  his  boat  is  his  home 
through  these  soft  summer  days  and  nights, 
and  the  overhanging  sky  gives  privacy  enough. 
A  slender,  graceful  Venetian  girl,  her  hair 
parted  on  one  side,  a  shawl  about  her  shoul- 
ders, has  just  brought  him  a  bundle  containing 
a  change  of  clothing.  She  sits  beside  him  as 
he  dresses,  and  I  move  my  chair  so  that  I  can 
catch  the  expressions  of  pride  and  delight  that 
flit  across  her  face  while  she  watches  the 
handsome,  broadly-built  young  fellow.  As 
he  stands  erect  in  the  gondola,  the  sunlight 
flashing  from  his  wet  arms,  I  note  the  fine 
lines  of  his  chest,  the  bronzed  neck  and  throat, 

lOI 


A  and  the  knotted  muscles  along  the  wrist  and 

Gondola  forearm.  When  the  white  shirt  with  broad 
yellow  collar  and  sash  are  adjusted  and  the 
toilet  is  complete,  even  to  the  straw  hat  worn 
rakishly  over  one  ear,  the  girl  gathers  up  the 
discarded  suit,  glances  furtively  at  me,  slips 
her  hand  into  his  for  a  moment,  and  then 
springs  ashore,  waving  her  handkerchief  as  he 
swings  out  past  the  Dogana,  the  yellow  rib- 
bons of  his  hat  flying  in  the  wind. 

Joseph,  prince  among  porters,  catches  my 
eye  and  smiles  meaningly.  Later,  when  he 
brings  my  mail,  he  explains  that  the  pretty 
Venetian,  Teresa,  is  the  sweetheart  of  Pietro 
the  yellow-and-white  gondolier  who  serves  the 
English  lady  at  the  Palazzo  da  Mula.  Pietro, 
he  tells  me,  rows  in  the  regatta  to-day,  and 
these  preparations  are  in  honor  of  that  most 
important  event.  He  assures  me  that  it  will 
be  quite  the  most  interesting  of  all  the  regat- 
tas of  the  year,  and  that  I  must  go  early  and 
secure  a  place  near  the  stake-boat  if  I  want 
to  see  anything  of  the  finish.  It  is  part  of 
Joseph's  duty  and  pleasure  to  keep  you  posted 
on  everything  that  happens  in  Venice,  It 
would  distress  him  greatly  if  he  thought  you 
could  obtain  this  information  from  any  other 
source. 

While  we  talk  the  Professor  enters  the  gar- 


den  from  the  side  door  of  the  corridor,  and  A 

takes  the  vacant  seat  beside  me.     He,  too,  Gj>*^^^^<^ 

Race 
has  come  to  tell  me  of  the  regatta.     He  is 

bubbling  over  with  excitement,  and  insists 
that  I  shall  meet  him  at  the  water-steps  of 
the  little  Piazzetta  near  the  Caff^  Veneta  Ma- 
rina, at  three  o'clock,  not  a  moment  later. 
To-day,  he  says,  I  shall  see,  not  the  annual 
regatta,  —  that  great  spectacle  with  the 
Grand  Canal  crowded  with  tourists  and  sight- 
seers solidly  banked  from  the  water's  edge  to 
the  very  balconies,  — but  an  old-time  contest 
between  the  two  factions  of  the  gondoliers, 
the  Nicoletti  and  Castellani ;  a  contest  really 
of  and  for  the  Venetians  themselves. 

The  course  is  to  begin  at  the  Lido,  run- 
ning thence  to  the  great  flour-mill  up  the 
Giudecca,  and  down  again  to  the  stake-boat 
off  the  Public  Garden.  Giuseppe  is  to  row, 
and  Pasquale,  both  famous  oarsmen,  and 
Carlo,  the  brother  of  Gaspari,  who  won  the 
great  regatta ;  better  than  all,  young  Pietro, 
of  the  Traghetto  of  Santa  Salute. 

"Not  Pietro  of  this  traghetto,  right  here 
below  us  .^  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes  ;  he  rows  with  his  brother  Marco. 
Look  out  for  him  when  he  comes  swinging 
down  the  canal.  If  you  have  any  money  to 
wager,  put  it  on  him.    Gustavo,  my  waiter  at 

103 


A  Florian's,  says  he  is  bound  to  win.     His  col- 

Uondola    ^j-g  ^^^  yellow  and  white.'' 

This  last  one  I  knew,  for  had  he  not  made 
his  toilet,  half  an  hour  before,  within  sight  of 
my  table  .''  No  wonder  Teresa  looked  proud 
and  happy ! 

While  the  Professor  is  bowing  himself  back- 
ward out  of  the  garden,  hat  in  hand,  his  white 
hair  and  curled  mustache  glistening  in  the 
sun,  an  oleander  blossom  in  his  button-hole, 
Espero  enters,  also  bareheaded,  and  begs  that 
the  Signore  will  use  Giorgio's  gondola  until 
he  can  have  his  own  boat,  now  at  the  re- 
pair-yard next  to  San  Trovaso,  scraped  and 
pitched  ;  the  grass  on  her  bottom  was  the 
width  of  his  hand.  By  one  o'clock  she  would 
be  launched  again.  San  Trovaso,  as  the  Si- 
gnore knew,  was  quite  near  the  Caffe  Calcina; 
would  he  be  permitted  to  call  for  him  at  the 
caffe  after  luncheon  }  As  the  regatta  began 
at  three  o'clock  there  would  not  be  time  to 
return  again  to  the  Signore's  lodging  and 
still  secure  a  good  place  at  the  stake-boat  off 
the  Garden. 

No ;  the  illustrious  Signore  would  do  no- 
thing of  the  kind.  He  would  take  Giorgio 
and  his  gondola  for  the  morning,  and  then, 
when  the  boat  was  finished,  Espero  could 
pick  up  the  Professor  at  the  Caffe:  Veneta 
104 


Marina  in  the  afternoon  and  bring  him  aboard  A 
Giorgio's  boat  on  his  way  down  the  canal.       Gondola 

Giorgio  is  my  stand-by  when  Espero  is 
away.  I  often  send  him  to  my  friends,  those 
whom  I  love,  that  they  may  enjoy  the  luxury 
of  spending  a  day  with  a  man  who  has  a  score 
and  more  of  sunshiny  summers  packed  away 
in  his  heart,  and  not  a  cloud  in  any  one  of 
them.  Tagliapietra  Giorgio,  of  the  Traghetto 
of  Santa  Salute,  is  his  full  name  and  address. 
Have  Joseph  call  him  for  you  some  day,  and 
your  Venice  will  be  all  the  more  delightful 
because  of  his  buoyant  strength,  his  cheeri- 
ness,  and  his  courtesy. 

So  Giorgio  and  I  idle  about  the  lagoon  and 
the  Giudecca,  watching  the  flags  being 
hoisted,  the  big  barcos  being  laden,  and  vari- 
ous other  preparations  for  the  great  event  of 
the  afternoon. 

After  luncheon  Giorgio  stops  at  his  house 
to  change  his  tcnda  for  the  new  one  with  the 
blue  lining,  and  slips  into  the  white  suit  just 
laundered  for  him.  He  lives  a  few  canals 
away  from  the  Calcina,  with  his  mother,  his 
widowed  sister  and  her  children,  in  a  small 
house  with  a  garden  all  figs  and  oleanders. 
His  bedroom  is  next  to  his  mother's,  on  the 
second  floor,  overlooking  the  blossoms. 
There  is  a  shrine  above   the    bureau,  deco- 

105 


A  rated  with  paper  flowers,  and  on  the  walls  a 

Gondola  scattering  of  photographs  of  brother  gondo- 
liers, and  some  trophies  of  oars  and  flags. 
Hanging  behind  the  door  are  his  oilskins  for 
wet  weather,  and  the  Tam  O'Shanter  cap 
that  some  former  padrone  has  left  him,  as  a 
souvenir  of  the  good  times  they  once  had  to- 
gether, and  which  Giorgio  wears  as  a  weather 
signal  for  a  rainy  afternoon,  although  the 
morning  sky  may  be  cloudless.  All  gondo- 
liers are  good  weather  prophets. 

The  entire  family  help  Giorgio  with  the 
tenda  —  the  old  mother  carrying  the  side- 
curtains,  warm  from  her  flat-iron,  and  chubby 
Beppo,  bareheaded  and  barefooted,  bringing 
up  the  rear  with  the  little  blue  streamer  that 
on  gala  days  floats  from  the  gondola's  lamp- 
socket  forward,  which  on  other  days  is  always 
filled  with  flowers. 

Then  we  are  off,  picking  our  way  down  the 
narrow  canal,  waiting  here  and  there  for  the 
big  barcos  to  pass,  laden  with  wine  or  fruit, 
until  we  shoot  out  into  the  broad  waters  of 
the  Giudecca. 

You  see  at  a  glance  that  Venice  is  astir. 
All  along  the  Zattere,  on  every  wood-boat, 
barco,  and  barge,  on  every  bridge,  balcony, 
and  house-top,  abreast  the  wide  fondamciita 
fronting  the  great  warehouses,  and  away  down 
1 06 


the  edge  below  the  Redentore,  the  people  are  A 
swarming  like  flies.  Out  on  the  Giudecca,  ^^^^'='^'^ 
anchored  to  the  channel  spiles,  is  a  double 
line  of  boats  of  every  conceivable  description, 
from  a  toy  sandolo  to  a  steamer's  barge. 
These  lie  stretched  out  on  the  water  like  two 
great  sea-serpents,  their  heads  facing  the 
garden,  their  tails  curving  toward  the  Re- 
dentore. 

Between  these  two  sea-monsters,  with  their 
flashing  scales  of  a  thousand  umbrellas,  is  an 
open  roadway  of  glistening  silver. 

Giorgio  swings  across  to  the  salt-ware- 
houses above  the  Dogana  and  on  down  and 
over  to  the  Riva.  Then  there  is  a  shout 
ahead,  a  red  and  white  tenda  veers  a  point, 
comes  close,  backs  water,  and  the  Professor 
springs  in. 

"  Here,  Professor,  here  beside  me  on  the 
cushions,"  I  call  out.  "  Draw  back  the  cur- 
tains, Giorgio.  And,  Espero,  hurry  ahead 
and  secure  a  place  near  the  stake-boat.  We 
will  be  there  in  ten  minutes." 

The  Professor  was  a  sight  to  cheer  the 
heart  of  an  amateur  yachtsman  out  for  a  holi- 
day. He  had  changed  his  suit  of  the  morn- 
ing for  a  small  straw  hat  trimmed  with  red, 
an  enormous  field-glass  with  a  strap  over  his 
shoulder,  and  a  short  velvet  coat   that   had 

107 


A  once  done  service  as  a  smoking-jacket.     His 

Gondola  mustachios  were  waxed  into  needle  points. 
The  occasion  had  for  him  all  the  novelty  of 
the  first  spring  meeting  at  Longchamps,  or  a 
race  off  Cowes,  and  he  threw  himself  into  its 
spirit  with  the  gusto  of  a  boy. 

"  What  colors  are  you  flying,  moii  Capi- 
tainef  Blue?  Never!"  noticing  Giorgio's 
streamer.  "  Pasquale's  color  is  blue,  and  he 
will  be  half  a  mile  astern  when  Pietro  is  round 
the  stake-boat.  Vive  le  jawie  !  Vive  Pie- 
tro !"  and  out  came  a  yellow  rag  —  Pietro's 
color  —  bearing  a  strong  resemblance  to  the 
fragment  of  some  old  silk  curtain.  It  settled 
at  a  glance  all  doubt  as  to  the  Professor's 
sympathies  in  the  coming  contest. 

The  day  was  made  for  a  regatta ;  a  cool, 
crisp,  bracing  October  day  ;  a  day  of  white 
clouds  and  turquoise  skies,  of  flurries  of 
soft  winds  that  came  romping  down  the  la- 
goon, turned  for  a  moment  in  pla}'-,  and  then 
went  scampering  out  to  sea  ;  a  day  of  dazzling 
sun,  of  brilliant  distances,  of  clear-cut  out- 
lines, black  shadows,  and  flashing  lights. 

As  we  neared  the  Public  Garden  the  crowd 
grew  denser  ;  the  cries  of  the  gondoliers  were 
incessant ;  even  Giorgio's  skillful  oar  was 
taxed  to  the  utmost  to  avoid  the  polluting 
touch  of  an  underbred  sandolo,  or  the  still 
1 08 


greater  calamity  of  a  collision  —  really  an  un-^ 
pardonable  sin  with  a  gondolier.  Every  now  'Gondola 
and  then  a  chorus  of  yells,  charging  every 
crime  in  the  decalogue,  would  be  hurled  at 
some  landsman  whose  oar  "  crabbed,"  or  at 
some  nondescript  craft  filled  with  "  barbers 
and  cooks,"  to  quote  Giorgio,  who  in  forcing 
a  passage  had  become  hopelessly  entangled. 

The  only  clear  water-space  was  the  ribbon 
of  silver  beginning  away  up  near  the  Reden- 
tore,  between  the  tails  of  the  two  sea-mon- 
sters, and  ending  at  the  stake-boat.  Else- 
where, on  both  sides,  from  the  Riva  to  San 
Giorgio,  and  as  far  as  the  wall  of  the  Garden, 
was  a  dense  floating  mass  of  human  beings, 
cheering,  singing,  and  laughing,  waving  col- 
ors, and  calling  out  the  names  of  their  favor- 
ites in  rapid  crescendo. 

The  spectacle  on  land  was  equally  unique. 
The  balustrade  of  the  broad  walk  of  the  Pub- 
lic Garden  was  a  huge  flower-bed  of  blossom- 
ing hats  and  fans,  spotted  with  myriads  of 
parasols  in  full  bloom.  Bunches  of  over-ripe 
boys  hung  in  the  trees,  or  dropped  one  by  one 
into  the  arms  of  gendarmes  below.  The 
palaces  along  the  Riva  were  a  broad  ribbon  of 
color  with  a  binding  of  black  coats  and  hats. 
The  wall  of  San  Giorgio  fronting  the  bar- 
racks was  fringed  with  the  yellow  legs  and 

109 


A  edged  with  the  white  fatigue  caps  of  two  regi- 

Condola  jiiei-^ts.     Even   over  the  roofs  and  tower  of 
Kace 

the  church  itself  specks  of  sight-seers  were 

spattered  here  and  there,  as  if  the  joyous  wind 

in  some  mad  frolic  had  caught  them  up  in 

very  glee,  and  as  suddenly  showered  them  on 

cornice,  sill,  and  dome. 

Beyond  all  this,  away  out  on  the  lagoon, 
toward  the  islands,  the  red-sailed  fishing-boats 
hurried  in  for  the  finish,  their  canvas  aflame 
against  the  deepening  blue.  Over  all  the 
sunlight  danced  and  blazed  and  shimmered, 
gilding  and  bronzing  the  roof-jewels  of  San 
Marco,  flashing  from  oar  blade,  brass,  and 
ferro,  silvering  the  pigeons  whirling  deliri- 
ously in  the  intoxicating  air,  making  glad  and 
gay  and  happy  every  soul  who  breathed  the 
breath  of  this  joyous  Venetian  day. 

None  of  all  this  was  lost  upon  the  Profes- 
sor. He  stood  in  the  bow  drinking  in  the 
scene,  sweeping  his  glass  round  like  a  weather- 
vane,  straining  his  eyes  up  the  Giudecca  to 
catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  coming  boats, 
picking  out  faces  under  flaunting  parasols,  and 
waving  aloft  his  yellow  rag  when  some  gon- 
dola swept  by  flying  Pietro's  colors,  or  some 
boat-load  of  friends  saluted  in  passing. 

Suddenly  there  came  down  on  the  shifting 
wind,  from  far  up  the  Giudecca,  a  sound  like 
no 


the  distant  baying  of  a  pack  of  hounds,  and  A 
as  suddenly  died  away.     Then  the  roar  of  a  '^"'^^^^ 
thousand  throats,  caught  up  by  a  thousand 
more  about  us,  broke  on  the  air,  as  a  boat- 
man, perched  on  a  masthead,  waved  his  hat. 

"  Here  they  come  !  Viva  Pietro  !  Viva  Pas- 
quale  !  —  Castellani ! —  Nicoletti !  —  Pietro  !  " 

The  dense  mass  rose  and  fell  in  undulations, 
like  a  great  carpet  being  shaken,  its  colors 
tossing  in  the  sunlight.  Between  the  thicket 
oiferros,  away  down  the  silver  ribbon,  my  eye 
caught  two  little  specks  of  yellow  capping 
two  white  figures.  Behind  these,  almost  in 
line,  were  two  similar  dots  of  blue  ;  farther 
away  other  dots,  hardly  distinguishable,  on 
the  horizon  line. 

The  gale  became  a  tempest  —  the  roar  was 
deafening  ;  women  waved  their  shawls  in  the 
air ;  men,  swinging  their  hats,  shouted  them- 
selves hoarse.  The  yellow  specks  developed 
into  handkerchiefs  bound  to  the  heads  of  Pie- 
tro and  his  brother  Marco ;  the  blues  were 
those  of  Pasquale  and  his  mate. 

Then,  as  we  strain  our  eyes,  the  two  tails 
of  the  sea-monster  twist  and  clash  together, 
closing  in  upon  the  string  of  rowers  as  they 
disappear  in  the  dip  behind  San  Giorgio,  only 
to  reappear  in  full  sight,  Pietro  half  a  length 
ahead,  straining  every  sinew,  his  superb  arms 

III 


A  swinging  like  a  flail,  his  lithe  body  swaying 

Gondola  -^^  splendid,  springing  curves,  the  water  rush- 
ing from  his  oar  blade,  his  brother  bending 
aft  in  perfect  rhythm. 

"  Pietro  !  Pietro  !  "  came  the  cry,  shrill  and 
clear,  drowning  all  other  sounds,  and  a  great 
field  of  yellow  burst  into  flower  all  over  the 
lagoon,  from  San  Giorgio  to  the  Garden. 
The  people  went  wild.  If  before  there  had 
been  only  a  tempest,  now  there  was  a  cyclone. 
The  waves  of  blue  and  yellow  surged  alter- 
nately above  the  heads  of  the  throng  as  Pas- 
quale  or  Pietro  gained  or  lost  a  foot.  The 
Professor  grew  red  and  pale  by  turns,  his 
voice  broken  to  a  whisper  with  continued 
cheering,  the  yellow  rag  streaming  above  his 
head,  all  the  blood  of  his  ancestors  blazing  in 
his  face. 

The  contesting  boats  surged  closer.  You 
could  now  see  the  rise  and  fall  of  Pietro's 
superb  chest,  the  steel-like  grip  of  his  hands, 
and  could  outline  the  curves  of  his  thighs  and 
back.  The  ends  of  the  yellow  handkerchief, 
bound  close  about  his  head,  were  flying  in 
the  wind.  His  stroke  was  long  and  sweep- 
ing, his  full  weight  on  the  oar  ;  Pasquale's 
stroke  was  short  and  quick,  like  the  thrust  of 
a  spur. 

Now  they  are  abreast.     Pietro's  eyes  are 


blazing  —  Pasquale's    teeth   are     set.     Both^ 
crews  are  doing  tlieir  utmost.     The  yells  are  ^^^«<'"^ 
demoniac.     Even  the  women  are  beside  them- 
selves with  excitement. 

Suddenly,  when  within  five  hundred  yards 
of  the  goal,  Pasquale  turns  his  head  to  his 
mate  ;  there  is  an  answering  cry,  and  then, 
as  if  some  unseen  power  had  lent  its  strength, 
Pasquale's  boat  shoots  half  a  length  ahead, 
slackens,  falls  back,  gains  again,  now  an  inch, 
now  a  foot,  now  clear  of  Pietro's  bow,  and  on, 
on,  lashing  the  water,  surging  forward,  spring- 
ing with  every  gain,  cheered  by  a  thousand 
throats,  past  the  red  tower  of  San  Giorgio, 
past  the  channel  of  spiles  off  the  Garden,  past 
the  red  buoy  near  the  great  warship,  —  one 
quick,  sustained,  blistering  stroke,  —  until  the 
judge's  flag  drops  from  his  hand,  and  the 
great  race  is  won. 

"  A  true  knight,  a  gentleman  every  inch  of 
him,"  called  out  the  Professor,  forgetting  that 
he  had  staked  all  his  soldi  on  Pietro.  "  Fairly 
won,  Pasquale." 

In  the  whirl  of  the  victory,  I  had  forgotten 
Pietro,  my  gondolier  of  the  morning.  The 
poor  fellow  was  sitting  in  the  bow  of  his  boat, 
his  head  in  his  hands,  wiping  his  forehead 
and  throat,  the  tears  streaming  down  his 
cheeks.     His  brother  sat  beside  him.     In  the 

"3 


Race 


A  gladness  and  disappointment  of  the  hour,  no 

Gondola  ^^^^  q£  ^j^g  crowd  around  him  seemed  to  think 
of  the  hero  of  five  minutes  before.  Not  so 
Giorgio,  who  was  beside  himself  with  grief 
over  Pietro's  defeat,  and  who  had  not  taken  his 
eyes  from  his  face.  In  an  instant  more  he 
sprang  forward,  calling  out,  "  No  !  no  !  Brava 
Pietro  !  "  Espero  joining  in  as  if  with  a  com- 
mon impulse,  and  both  forcing  their  gondolas 
close  to  Pietro's. 

A  moment  more  and  Giorgio  was  over  the 
rail  of  Pietro's  boat,  patting  his  back,  strok- 
ing his  head,  comforting  him  as  you  would 
think  only  a  woman  could  —  but  then  you  do 
not  know  Giorgio.  Pietro  lifted  up  his  face 
and  looked  into  Giorgio's  eyes  with  an  ex- 
pression so  woe-begone,  and  full  of  such  in- 
tense suffering,  that  Giorgio  instinctively 
fiung  his  arm  around  the  great,  splendid  fel- 
low's neck.  Then  came  a  few  broken  words, 
a  tender  caressing  stroke  of  Giorgio's  hand, 
a  drawing  of  Pietro's  head  down  on  his  breast 
as  if  it  had  been  a  girl's,  and  then,  still  com- 
forting him  —  telling  him  over  and  over  again 
how  superbly  he  had  rowed,  how  the  next 
time  he  would  win,  how  he  had  made  a  grand 
second  — 

Giorgio  bent  his  head  —  and  kissed  him. 
When  Pietro,  a  moment  later,  pulled  him- 
114 


self  together  and  stood  erect  in  his  boat,  with  A 
eyes  still  wet,  the  look  on  his  face  was  as  firm  ^j^^^ff^^ 
and  determined  as  ever. 

Nobody  laughed.  It  did  not  shock  the 
crowd  ;  nobody  thought  Giorgio  unmanly  or 
foolish,  or  Pietro  silly  or  effeminate.  The  in- 
fernal Anglo-Saxon  custom  of  always  wearing 
a  mask  of  reserve,  if  your  heart  breaks,  has 
never  reached  these  people. 

As  for  the  Professor,  who  looked  on  quietly, 
I  think  —  yes,  I  am  quite  sure  —  that  a  little 
jewel  of  a  tear  squeezed  itself  up  through  his 
punctilious,  precise,  ever  exact  and  courteous 
body,  and  glistened  long  enough  on  his  eye- 
lids to  wet  their  lashes.  Then  the  bright  sun 
and  the  joyous  wind  caught  it  away.  Dear 
old  relic  of  a  by-gone  time !  How  gentle  a 
heart  beats  under  your  well-brushed,  thread- 
bare coat ! 

"5 


SOME  VENETIAN  GAFFES 

?VERY  one  in  Venice  has  his 
own  particular  caffe,  according 
to  his  own  particular  needs,  sym- 
pathies, or  tastes.  All  the  ar- 
tists, architects,  and  musicians 
meet  at  Florian's  ;  all  the  Venetians  go  to 
the  Quadri ;  the  Germans  and  late  Austrians, 
to  the  Bauer-Grunwald ;  the  stay-over-nights, 
to  the  Oriental  on  the  Riva ;  the  stevedores, 
to  the  Veneta  Marina  below  the  Arsenal ;  and 
my  dear  friend  Luigi  and  his  fellow  tramps, 
to  a  little  hole  in  the  wall  on  the  Via  Gari- 
baldi. 

These  caffes  are  scattered  everywhere,  from 
the  Public  Garden  to  the  Mestre  bridge  ;  all 
kinds  of  caffes  for  all  kinds  of  people  —  rich, 
not  so  rich,  poor,  poorer,  and  the  very  poorest. 
Many  of  them  serve  only  a  cup  of  coffee,  two 
little  flat  lumps  of  sugar,  a  hard,  brown  roll, 
and  a  glass  of  water  —  always  a  glass  of  water. 
Some  add  a  few  syrups  and  cordials,  with  a 
siphon  of  seltzer.  Others  indulge  in  the 
cheaper  wines  of  the  country,  Brindisi,  Chi- 
anti,  and  the  like,  and  are  then  known  as  wine- 
shops. Very  few  serve  any  spirits,  except  a 
spoonful  of  cognac  with  the  coffee  Water 
ii6 


^(f^' 


is  the  universal  beverage,  and  in  summer  this  Som<: 
is  cooled  by  ice  and  enriched  by  simple  ^^^^f^^'^ 
syrups  of  peach,  orange,  and  raspberry. 
Spirits  are  rarely  taken  and  intemperance  is 
practically  unknown.  In  an  experience  of 
many  years,  I  have  not  seen  ten  drunken  men, 
—  never  one  drunken  woman,  —  and  then  only 
in  September,  when  the  strong  wine  from 
Brindisi  is  brought  in  bulk  and  sold  over  the 
boat's  rail,  literally  by  the  bucket,  to  whoever 
will  buy. 

In  the  ristoranti —  caffes,  in  our  sense —  is 
served  an  array  of  eatables  that  would  puzzle 
the  most  expert  of  gourmands.  There  will  be 
macaroni,  of  course,  in  all  forms,  and  risotto  in 
a  dozen  different  ways,  and  soups  with  weird, 
uncanny  little  devil-fish  floating  about  in  them, 
and  salads  of  every  conceivable  green  thing 
that  can  be  chopped  up  in  a  bowl  and  drowned 
in  olive  oil ;  besides  an  assortment  of  cheeses 
with  individualities  of  perfume  that  beggar 
any  similar  collection  outside  of  Holland. 

Some  of  these  caffes  are  so  much  a  part  of 
Venice  and  Venetian  life,  that  you  are  led  to 
believe  that  they  were  founded  by  the  early 
Doges  and  are  coeval  with  the  Campanile  or 
the  Library.  Somebody,  of  course,  must 
know  when  they  first  began  setting  out  tables 
on  the  piazza  in  front  of  Florian's,  or  at  the 

117 


So7}ie  Quadri  opposite,  or  yet  again  at  tlie  Caffc  al 
Venetian  Cavallo,  near  San  Giovanni  e  Paulo,  and  at 
scores  of  others ;  but  I  confess  I  do  not.  If 
you  ask  the  head  waiter,  who  really  ought  to 
know  (for  he  must  have  been  born  in  one  of 
the  upper  rooms  —  he  certainly  never  leaves 
the  lower  ones),  he  shrugs  his  shoulders  in  a 
hopeless  way  and  sheds  the  inquiry  with  a 
despairing  gesture,  quite  as  if  you  had  asked 
who  laid  out  San  Marco,  or  who  drove  the 
piles  under  Saint  Theodore. 

There  is,  I  am  convinced,  no  real,  perma- 
nent, steady  proprietor  in  any  of  these  caff^s 
—  none  that  one  ever  sees.  There  must  be, 
of  course,  somebody  who  assumes  ownership, 
and  who  for  a  time  really  believes  that  he  has 
a  proprietary  interest  in  the  chairs  and  tables 
about  him.  After  a  while,  however,  he  gets 
old  and  dies,  and  is  buried  over  in  Campo 
Santo,  and  even  his  name  is  forgotten.  When 
this  happens,  and  it  is  eminently  proper  that  it 
should,  another  tenant  takes  possession,  quite 
as  the  pigeons  do  of  an  empty  carving  over 
the  door  of  the  king's  palace. 

But  the  caffe  keeps  on  :  the  same  old 
marble-top  tables  ;  the  same  old  glass-covered 
pictures,  with  the  impossible  Turkish  houris 
listening  to  the  improbable  gentleman  in 
baggy  trousers;  the  same  serving-counter, 
ii8 


with  the  row  of  cordials  in  glass  bottles  with  Some 
silver  stoppers.  The  same  waiters,  too,  hurry  ^-f^J.!^^^ 
about  —  they  live  on  for  centuries  —  wearing 
the  same  coats  and  neckties,  and  carrying  the 
same  napkins.  I  myself  have  never  seen  a 
dead  waiter,  and,  now  I  happen  to  think  of  it, 
I  have  never  heard  of  one. 

The  head  waiter  is,  of  course,  supreme.  He 
it  is  who  adds  up  on  his  fingers  the  sum  of 
your  extravagances,  who  takes  your  money 
and  dives  down  into  his  own  pocket  for  the 
change.  He  and  his  assistants  are  constantly 
running  in  and  out,  vanishing  down  subter- 
ranean stairs,  or  disappearing  through  swing- 
ing doors,  with  the  agility  of  Harlequin ;  you 
never  know  where  or  why,  until  they  pop 
out  again,  whirling  trays  held  high  over  their 
heads,  or  bearing  in  both  hands  huge  waiters 
loaded  with  dishes. 

The  habitues  of  these  caffes  are  as  interest- 
ing as  the  caffes  themselves.  The  Professor 
comes,  of  course  ;  you  always  know  where  to 
find  him.  And  the  youthful  Contessa  !  She 
of  the  uncertain  age,  with  hair  bleached  to  a 
light  law-calf,  and  a  rose-colored  veil !  And 
here  comes,  too,  every  distinguished  or  noto- 
rious person  of  high  or  low  degree  at  the  mo- 
ment in  Venice  ;  you  have  only  to  take  a 
chair  at  Florian's  and  be  patient  —  they  are 

119 


Some       sure   to   appear   before  the   music    is   over. 

Vaietian  'y\\q.xq  is  the  sister  of   the  Archduke,  with 
Laffes 

the  straight-backed,  pipe-stem-legged  officer 
acting  as  gentleman-in-waiting  ;  and  he  does 
wait,  standing  bolt  upright  like  a  sergeant 
on  dress  parade,  sometimes  an  hour,  for  her 
to  sit  down.  There  is  the  Spanish  Grandee, 
with  a  palace  for  the  season  (an  upper  floor 
with  an  entrance  on  a  side  canal),  whose  gon- 
doliers wear  flaming  scarlet,  with  a  crest  em- 
bossed on  brass  dinner-plates  for  arm  orna- 
ments ;  one  of  these  liveried  attendants 
always  dogs  the  Grandee  to  the  caffe,  so  as 
to  be  ready  to  pull  his  chair  out  when  his 
Excellency  sits  down.  Then  there  are  the 
Royal  Academician,  in  gray  tweed  knicker- 
bockers, traveling  incognito  with  two  friends  ; 
the  fragments  of  an  American  linen-duster 
brigade,  with  red  guide-books  and  faces,  in 
charge  of  a  special  agent ;  besides  scores  of 
others  of  every  nationality  and  rank.  They 
are  all  at  Florian's  some  time  during  the 
day. 

You  will  see  there,  too,  if  you  are  familiar 
with  the  inside  workings  of  a  favorite  caff^, 
an  underground  life  of  intrigue  or  mystery, 
in  which  Gustavo  or  Florio  has  a  hand  — 
often  upon  a  billet-donx  concealed  within  the 
folds  of  a  napkin  ;  not  to  mention  the  harm- 


less  distribution,  once  in  a  while,  of  smuggled  Sotne 

cigarettes  fresh  from  Cairo.  Venetian 

Caffes 
Poor  Gustavo  !     The  government  brought 

him  to  book  not  long  ago.  For  many  years 
he  had  supplied  his  patrons,  and  with  deli- 
cious Egyptians,  too !  One  night  Gustavo 
disappeared,  escorted  by  two  gendarmes  from 
the  Department  of  Justice.  Next  morning 
the  judge  said  :  "  Whereas,  according  to  the 
accounts  kept  by  the  Department  of  Customs, 
the  duties  and  expenses  due  the  king  on  the 
cigarettes  unlawfully  sold  by  the  prisoner  for 
years  past  aggregate  two  thousand  three 
hundred  and  ten  Ih'e  ;  and  whereas,  the  sav- 
ings of  the  prisoner  for  ten  years  past,  and  at 
the  moment  deposited  to  his  individual  credit 
in  the  Banco  Napoli,  amount  to  exactly  two 
thousand  three  hundred  and  ten  lire ;  there- 
fore, it  is  ordered,  that  a  sight  draft  for  the 
exact  amount  be  drawn  in  favor  of  the  kins:." 
This  would  entitle  Gustavo  to  the  pure  air  of 
the  piazza  ;  otherwise  t  —  well,  otherwise  not. 
Within  a  week  Gustavo  was  arain  whirlins 
his  tray — a  little  grayer,  perhaps,  and  a  little 
wiser  ;  certainly  poorer.  Thus  does  a  tyran- 
nical government  oppress  its  people  ! 

These  caffes  of  the  piazza,  with  their  iced 
carafes,  white  napkins,  and  little  silver  coffee- 
pots, are  the  caffes  of  the  rich. 

121 


Some  The  caff^  of  the  poor  is  sometimes  afloat. 

Venetian  ]\Jq  niatter  how  early  you  are  out  in  the  morn- 
ing,  this  floating  caffe  —  the  cook-boat  —  has 
its  fire  hghted,  and  the  savory  smell  of  its 
cuisine  drifts  over  the  lagoon,  long  before 
your  gondola  rounds  the  Dogana.  When 
you  come  alongside  you  find  a  charcoal  bra- 
zier heating  a  pan  of  savory  fish  and  a  large 
pot  of  coffee,  and  near  by  a  basketful  of  rolls, 
fresh  and  warm,  from  a  still  earlier  baker. 
There  are  peaches,  too,  and  a  hamper  of  figs. 
The  cook-boat  is  tended  by  two  men  ;  one 
cooks  and  serves,  and  the  other  rows,  stand- 
ing in  the  stern,  looking  anxiously  for  cus- 
tomers, and  calling  out  in  stentorian  tones 
that  all  the  delicacies  of  the  season  are  now 
being  fried,  broiled,  and  toasted,  and  that  for 
the  infinitesimal  sum  of  ten  soldi  you  can 
breakfast  like  a  doge. 

If  you  are  just  out  of  the  lagoon,  your  blood 
tingling  with  the  touch  of  the  sea,  your  face 
aglow  with  your  early  morning  bath,  answer 
the  cry  of  one  of  these  floating  kitchens,  and 
eat  a  breakfast  with  the  rising  sun  lighting 
your  forehead  and  the  cool  breath  of  the  la- 
goon across  your  cheek.  It  may  be  the  salt 
air  and  the  early  plunge  that  make  the  coffee 
so  savory,  the  fish  and  rolls  so  delicious,  and 
the  fruit  so  refreshing  ;  or  it  may  be  because 

122 


the  fish  were  wriggling  in  the  bottom  of  the  Some 
boat  half  an  hour  earlier,  the  coffee  only  at  l^'^'if!^'^'^ 
the  first  boiling,  and  the  fruit,  bought  from  a 
passing  boat,  still  damp  with  the  night's  dew  ! 

The  caffe  of  the  poorest  is  wherever  there 
is  a  crowd.  It  generally  stands  on  three  iron 
legs  under  one  of  the  trees  down  the  Via 
Garibaldi,  or  over  by  the  landing  of  the  Do- 
gana,  or  beneath  the  shade  of  some  awning, 
or  up  a  back  court.  The  old  fellow  who 
bends  over  the  hot  earthen  dish,  supported  on 
these  legs,  slowly  stirring  a  mess  of  kidneys 
or  an  indescribable  stew,  is  cook,  head  waiter, 
and  proprietor  all  in  one.  Every  now  and 
then  he  fishes  out  some  delicate  tidbit  —  a 
miniature  octopus,  perhaps  (called  fiilpe),  a 
little  sea-horror,  all  legs  and  claws,  which  he 
sprawls  out  on  a  bit  of  brown  paper  and  lays 
on  the  palm  of  your  left  hand,  assuming, 
clearly,  that  you  have  all  the  knives  and  forks 
that  you  need,  on  your  right. 

Once  in  awhile  a  good  Bohemian  discov- 
ers some  out-of-the-way  place  up  a  canal  or 
through  a  twisted  calle  that  delights  him  with 
its  cuisine,  its  cellar,  or  its  cosiness,  and  for- 
ever after  he  preempts  it  as  his  caffe.  I 
know  half  a  dozen  such  discoveries — one 
somewhere  near  San  Giorgio  degli  Schiavoni, 
where  the  men  play  bowls  in  a  long,  narrow 

123 


Some       alley,  under  wide-spreading  trees,  cramped  up 
Venetian  i^g^ween  hii^h  buildings  ;  and  another,  off  the 

i^CtfiCS 

Merceria,  where  the  officers  smoke  and 
lounge;  and  still  another,  quite  my  own  — 
the  Caffk  Calcina.  This  last  is  on  the  Rio 
San  Vio,  and  looks  out  on  the  Giudecca,  just 
below  San  Rosario.  You  would  never  sus- 
pect it  of  being  a  caffe  at  all,  until  you  had 
dodged  under  the  little  roof  of  the  porch  to 
escape  the  heat,  and  opening  the  side  door 
found  yourself  in  a  small,  plainly  furnished 
room  with  little  marble-top  tables,  each  dec- 
orated with  a  Siamese-twin  salt-cellar  hold- 
ing a  pinch  of  salt  and  of  pepper.  Even  then 
it  is  a  very  common  sort  of  caffe,  and  not  at 
all  the  place  you  would  care  to  breakfast  in 
twice  ;  that  is,  not  until  you  had  followed  the 
demure  waiter  through  a  narrow  passage  and 
out  into  a  square /i^//c  splashed  with  yellow- 
green  light  and  cooled  by  overlacing  vines. 
Then  you  realize  that  this  same  square  patch 
of  ground  is  one  of  the  few  restful  spots  of 
the  wide  earth. 

It  is  all  open  to  the  sky  except  for  a  great 
arbor  of  grape  leaves  covering  the  w^iole  area, 
beneath  which,  on  the  cool,  moist  ground, 
stand  half  a  dozen  little  tables  covered  with 
snow-white  cloths.  At  one  side  is  a  shelter, 
from  behind  which  come  certain  mysterious 
124 


noises  of  fries  and  broils.  All  about  are  big,  Some 
green-painted  boxes  of  japonicas,  while  at  one  ^^^lEl^^"' 
end  the  oleanders  thrust  their  top  branches 
through  the  overhanging  leaves  of  the  arbor, 
waving  their  blossoms  defiantly  in  the  blaz- 
ing sun.  Beneath  this  grateful  shelter  you 
sit  and  loaf  and  invite  your  soul,  and  your 
best  friend,  too,  if  he  happens  to  be  that  sort 
of  a  man. 

After  having  congratulated  yourself  on  your 
discovery  and  having  become  a  daily  habitue 
of  the  delightful /^//^,  you  find  that  you  have 
really  discovered  the  Grand  Canal  or  the 
Rialto  bridge.  To  your  great  surprise,  the 
Caffk  Calcina  has  been  the  favorite  resort  of 
good  Bohemians  for  nearly  a  century.  You 
learn  that  Turner  painted  his  sunset  sketches 
from  its  upper  windows,  and  that  dozens  of 
more  modern  English  painters  have  lived  in 
the  rooms  above  ;  that  Whistler  and  Rico  and 
scores  of  others  have  broken  bread  and  had 
toothsome  omelets  under  its  vines  ;  and,  more 
precious  than  all,  that  Ruskin  and  Browning 
have  shared  many  a  bottle  of  honest  Chianti 
with  these  same  oleanders  above  their  heads, 
and  this,  too,  in  the  years  when  the  Sage  of 
Brant  wood  was  teaching  the  world  to  love  his 
Venice,  and  the  great  poet  was  singing  songs 
that  will  last  as  long  as  the  language. 

125 


ON  THE  HOTEL  STEPS 

[F  you  drink  your  early  coffee  as 
I  do,  in  the  garden  under  the 
oleanders,  overlooking  the  wa- 
ter-landing of  the  hotel,  and 
linger  long  enough  over  your 
fruit,  you  will  conclude  before  many  days  that 
a  large  part  of  the  life  of  Venice  can  be  seen 
from  the  hotel  steps.  You  may  behold  the 
great  row  of  gondolas  at  the  traghetto  near 
by,  ranged  side  by  side,  awaiting  their  turn, 
and  here  and  there,  tied  to  the  spiles  outside 
the  line,  the  more  fortunate  boats  whose 
owners  serve  some  sight-seer  by  the  week,  or 
some  native  padrone  by  the  month,  and  are 
thus  free  of  the  daily  routine  of  the  traghetto, 
and  free,  too,  from  our  old  friend  Joseph's 
summoning  voice. 

You  will  be  delighted  at  the  good-humor 
and  good-fellowship  which  animate  this  group 
of  gondoliers  ;  their  ringing  songs  and  hearty 
laughter ;  their  constant  care  of  the  boats, 
their  daily  sponging  and  polishing  ;  and  now 
and  then,  I  regret  to  say,  your  ears  will  be 
assailed  by  a  quarrel,  so  fierce,  so  loud,  and 
so  full  of  vindictive  energy,  that  you  will  start 
from  your  seat  in  instant  expectation  of  the 
126 


gleam    of   a   stiletto,    until   by   long   experi-  Oti  the 
ence  you  learn   how  harmless  are  both  the^"^ 
bark  and  bite  of  a  gondolier,  and  how  neces- 
sary as  a  safety-valve,  to  accused  and  accuser 
as  well,  is  the  unlimited  air-space  of  the  Grand 
Canal. 

You  will  also  come  into  closer  contact  with 
Joseph,  prince  among  porters,  and  patron 
saint  of  this  Traghetto  of  Santa  Salute. 
There  is  another  Saint,  of  course,  shaded  by 
its  trellised  vines,  framed  in  tawdry  gilt,  pro- 
tected from  the  weather  by  a  wooden  hood, 
and  lighted  at  night  by  a  dim  lamp  hanging 
before  it  —  but,  for  all  that,  Joseph  is  supreme 
as  protector,  refuge,  and  friend. 

Joseph,  indeed,  is  more  than  this.  He  is 
the  patron  saint  and  father  confessor  of  every 
wayfarer,  of  whatever  tongue.  Should  a 
copper-colored  gentleman  mount  the  steps  of 
the  hotel  landing,  attired  in  calico  trousers, 
a  short  jacket  of  pea-green  silk,  and  six  yards 
of  bath  toweling  about  his  head,  Joseph  in- 
stantly addresses  him  in  broken  Hindostanee, 
sending  his  rattan  chairs  and  paper  boxes  to 
a  room  overlooking  the  shady  court,  and  pla- 
cing a  boy  on  the  rug  outside,  ready  to  spring 
when  the  copper-colored  gentleman  claps  his 
hands.  Does  another  distinguished  foreigner 
descend  from  the  gondola,  attended  by  two 

127 


On  the  valets  with  a  block-tin  trunk,  half  a  score  of 
Hotel  hat-boxes,  bags,  and  bundles,  four  umbrellas, 
and  a  dozen  sticks,  Joseph  at  once  accosts 
him  in  most  excellent  English,  and  has  or- 
dered a  green-painted  tub  rolled  into  his  room 
before  he  has  had  time  to  reach  the  door  of 
his  apartment.  If  another  equally  distin- 
guished traveler  steps  on  the  marble  slab, 
wearing  a  Bond  Street  ulster,  a  slouch  hat, 
and  a  ready-made  summer  suit,  with  yellow 
shoes,  and  carrying  an  Alpine  staff  (so  useful 
in  Venice)  branded  with  illegible  letters  chas- 
ing each  other  spirally  up  and  down  the 
wooden  handle,  Joseph  takes  his  measure  at 
a  glance.  He  knows  it  is  his  first  trip  "  en 
Cook,''  and  that  he  will  want  the  earth,  and 
instantly  decides  that  so  far  as  concerns  him- 
self he  shall  have  it,  including  a  small,  round, 
convenient  little  portable  which  he  immedi- 
ately places  behind  the  door  to  save  the  mar- 
ble hearth.  So  with  the  titled  Frenchman, 
wife,  maid,  and  canary  bird ;  the  haughty 
Austrian,  his  sword  in  a  buckskin  bag  ;  the 
stolid  German  with  the  stout  helpmate  and 
one  satchel,  or  the  Spaniard  with  two  friends 
and  no  baggage  at  all. 

Joseph  knows  them  all — their  conditions, 
wants,    economies,    meannesses,    escapades, 
and  subterfuges.    Does  he  not  remember  how 
128 


you  haggled  over  the  price  of  your  room,  and  On  the 
the  row  you  made  when  your  shoes  were-^''^^^ 
mixed  up  with  the  old  gentleman's  on  the 
floor  above  ?  Does  he  not  open  the  door  in 
the  small  hours,  when  you  slink  in,  the  bell 
sounding  like  a  tocsin  at  your  touch  ?  Is  he 
not  rubbing  his  eyes  and  carrying  the  candle 
that  lights  you  down  to  the  corridor  door,  the 
only  exit  from  the  hotel  after  midnight,  when 
you  had  hoped  to  escape  by  the  garden,  and 
dare  not  look  up  at  the  balcony  above  ? 

Here  also  you  will  often  meet  the  Professor. 
Indeed,  he  is  breakfasting  with  me  in  this 
same  garden  this  very  morning.  It  is  the 
first  time  I  have  seen  him  since  the  memor- 
able day  of  the  regatta,  when  Pasquale  won 
the  prize  and  the  old  fellow  lost  his  soldi. 

He  has  laid  aside  his  outing  costume  —  the 
short  jacket,  beribboned  hat,  and  huge  field- 
glass  —  and  is  gracing  my  table  clothed  in 
what  he  is  pleased  to  call  his  "  garb  of  tuition," 
worn  to-day  because  of  a  pupil  who  expects 
him  at  nine  o'clock  ;  '*  a  horrid  old  German 
woman  from  Prague,"  he  calls  her.  This 
garb  is  the  same  old  frock-coat  of  many  sum- 
mers, the  well-ironed  silk  hat,  and  the  limp 
glove  dangling  from  his  hand  or  laid  like  a 
crumpled  leaf  on  the  cloth  beside  him.  The 
coat,  held  snug  to  the  waist  by  a  single  but- 

129 


On  the  ton,  always  bulges  out  over  the  chest,  the  two 
^iotd  frogs  serving  as  pockets.  From  these  depths, 
near  the  waist-line,  the  Professor  now  and 
then  drags  up  a  great  silk  handkerchief,  either 
red  or  black  as  the  week's  wash  may  permit, 
for  I  have  never  known  of  his  owning  more 
than  two ! 

To-day,  below  the  bulge  of  this  too  large 
handkerchief  swells  yet  another  enlargement, 
to  which  my  guest,  tapping  it  significantly 
with  his  finger-tips,  refers  in  a  most  mysteri- 
ous way  as  "a  very  great  secret,"  but  with- 
out unbosoming  to  me  either  its  cause  or  its 
mystery.  When  the  cigarettes  are  lighted 
he  drops  his  hand  deep  into  his  one-buttoned 
coat,  unloads  the  handkerchief,  and  takes  out 
a  little  volume  bound  in  vellum,  a  book  he 
had  promised  me  for  weeks.  This  solves  the 
mystery  and  effaces  the  bulge. 

One  of  the  delights  of  knowing  the  Pro- 
fessor well  is  to  see  him  handle  a  book  that 
he  loves.  He  has  a  peculiar  way  of  smooth- 
ing the  sides  before  opening  it,  as  one  would 
a  child's  hand,  and  of  always  turning  the  leaves 
as  though  he  were  afraid  of  hurting  the  back, 
caressing  them  one  by  one  with  his  fingers, 
quite  as  a  bird  plumes  its  feathers.  And  he 
is  always  bringing  a  new  book  to  light  ;  one 
of  his  charming  idiosyncrasies  is  the  hunting 
130 


about  in  odd  corners  for  just  such  odd  vol-  On  the 

"sups 
"  Out  of  print  now,  my  dear  fellow.     You 

can't  buy  it  for  money.  This  is  the  only 
copy  in  Venice  that  I  could  borrow  for  love. 
See  the  chapters  on  these  very  fellows  — 
these  gondoliers,"  pointing  to  the  traghetto. 
"Sometimes,  when  I  hear  their  quarrels,  I 
wonder  if  they  ever  remember  that  their  guild 
is  as  old  as  the  days  of  the  Doges,  a  fossil 
survival,  unique,  perhaps,  in  the  history  of 
this  or  of  any  other  country." 

While  the  Professor  nibbles  at  the  cres- 
cents and  sips  his  coffee,  pausing  now  and 
then  to  read  me  passages  taken  at  random 
from  the  little  volume  in  his  hands,  I  watch 
the  procession  of  gondolas  from  the  traghetto, 
like  a  row  of  cabs  taking  their  turn,  as 
Joseph's  "<^  tma'^  or  "due"  rings  out  over 
the  water.  One  after  another  they  steal 
noiselessly  up  and  touch  the  water-steps, 
Joseph  helping  each  party  into  its  boat : 
the  German  Baroness  with  the  two  poodles 
and  a  silk  parasol ;  the  poor  fellow  from  the 
Engadine,  with  the  rugs  and  an  extra  over- 
coat, his  mother's  arm  about  him  —  not  many 
more  sunshiny  days  for  him  ;  the  bevy  of  joy- 
ous young  girls  in  summer  dresses  and  sailor 
hats,  and  the  two  college  boys  in  white  flan- 

131 


Steps 


On  the  nels,  the  chaperone  in  the  next  boat.  *'  Ah, 
Hotel  these  sweet  young  Americans,  these  naive 
countrywomen  of  yours  !  "  whispers  the  Pro- 
fessor ;  "  how  exquisitely  bold  !  "  Last,  the 
painter,  with  his  trap  and  a  big  canvas,  which 
he  lifts  in  as  carefully  as  if  it  had  a  broken 
rib,  and  then  turns  quickly  face  in  ;  "an  old 
dodge,"  you  say  to  yourself ;  "  unfinished,  of 


course 


Presently  a  tall,  finely  formed  gondolier  in 
dark  blue,  with  a  red  sash,  whirls  the /^rr^  of 
his  boat  close  to  the  landing-steps,  and  a 
graceful,  dignified  woman,  past  middle  life, 
but  still  showing  traces  of  great  beauty,  steps 
in,  and  sinks  upon  the  soft  cushions. 

The  Professor  rises  like  a  grand  duke  re- 
ceiving a  princess,  brings  one  arm  to  a  salute, 
places  the  other  over  his  heart,  and  makes  a 
bow  that  carries  the  conviction  of  profound 
respect  and  loyalty  in  its  every  curve.  The 
lady  acknowledges  it  with  a  gracious  bend  of 
her  head,  and  a  smile  which  shows  her  appre- 
ciation of  its  sincerity. 

"  An  English  lady  of  rank  who  spends  her 
Octobers  here,"  says  the  Professor,  when  he 
regains  his  seat.  He  had  remained  standing 
until  the  gondola  had  disappeared  —  such 
old-time  observances  are  part  of  his  religion. 

"Did  you  notice  her  gondolier .?  That  is 
132 


Giovanni,  the  famous  oarsman.  Let  me  tell  On  the 
you  the  most  delicious  story  !  Oh,  the  child-  ^fl 
ish  simplicity  of  these  men  !  You  would  say, 
would  you  not,  that  he  was  about  forty  years 
of  age  ?  You  saw,  too,  how  broad  and  big  he 
was  ?  Well,  mon  ami,  not  only  is  he  the 
strongest  oarsman  in  Venice,  but  he  has 
proved  it,  for  he  has  won  the  annual  regatta, 
the  great  one  on  the  Grand  Canal,  for  five 
consecutive  summers  !  This,  you  know,  gives 
him  the  title  of  'Emperor.'  Now,  there  is  a 
most  charming  Signora  whom  he  has  served 
for  years,  —  she  always  spends  her  summers 
here,  —  whom,  I  assure  you,  Giovanni  idolizes, 
and  over  whom  he  watches  exactly  as  if  she 
were  both  his  child  and  his  queen.  Well, 
one  day  last  year,"  here  the  Professor's  face 
cracked  into  lines  of  suppressed  mirth,  "  Gio- 
vanni asked  for  a  day's  leave,  and  went  over 
to  Mestre  to  bid  good-by  to  some  friends  en 
route  for  Milan.  The  Brindisi  wine  —  the 
vijta  forte  —  oh,  that  devilish  wine  !  you  know 
it !  —  had  just  reached  Mestre.  It  only  comes 
in  September,  and  lasts  but  a  few  weeks. 
Of  course  Giovanni  must  have  his  grand  out- 
ing, and  three  days  later  Signor  Giovanni- 
the-Strong  presented  himself  again  at  the 
door  of  the  apartment  of  his  Signora,  sober, 
but  limp  as  a  rag.     The  Signora,  grand  dame 

T-Z3 


Steps 


On  the  as  she  was,  refused  to  see  him,  sending  word 
Hotel  i-jy  ]-^gjf.  maid  that  she  would  not  hear  a  word 
from  him  until  the  next  day.  Now,  what  do 
you  think  this  great  strong  fellow  did  ?  He 
went  home,  threw  himself  on  the  bed,  turned 
his  face  to  the  wall,  and  for  half  the  night 
cried  like  a  baby  !  Think  of  it !  like  a  baby  ! 
His  wife  could  not  get  him  to  eat  a  mouthful. 
"The  next  day,  of  course,  the  Signora  for- 
gave him.  There  was  nothing  else  to  be 
done,  for,  as  she  said  to  me  afterwards, 
'  What }  Venice  without  Giovanni !  Mon 
Dieu  ! ' " 

The  Professor  throws  away  the  end  of  his 
last  cigarette  and  begins  gathering  up  his 
hat  and  the  one  unmated,  lonely  glove.  No 
living  soul  ever  yet  saw  him  put  this  on. 
Sometimes  he  thrusts  in  his  two  fingers,  as 
if  fully  intending  to  bury  his  entire  hand,  and 
then  you  see  an  expression  of  doubt  and 
hesitancy  cross  his  face,  denoting  a  change 
of  mind,  as  he  crumples  it  carelessly,  or 
pushes  it  into  his  coat-tail  pocket  to  keep 
company  with  its  fictitious  mate. 

At  this  moment  Espero  raises  his  head  out 
of  his  gondola  immediately  beneath  us. 
Everything  is  ready,  he  says  :  the  sketch 
trap,  extra  canvas,  fresh  siphon  of  seltzer,  ice, 
fiasco  of  Chianti,  Gorgonzola,  all  but  the  rolls, 
134 


which  he  will  get  at  the  baker's  on  our  way  On  the 
over  to  the  Giudecca,  where  I  am  to  work  on  ^^^f 
the  sketch  begun  yesterday. 

"  Ah,  that  horrid  old  German  woman  from 
Prague!"  sighs  the  Professor.  "If  I  could 
only  go  with  you  !  " 

135 


OPEN-AIR  MARKETS 

jOMETIMES,  in  early  autumn, 
on  the  lagoon  behind  the  Re- 
dentore,  you  may  overtake  a 
curious  craft,  half  barge,  half 
gondola,  rowed  by  a  stooping 
figure  in  cowl  and  frock. 

Against  the  glow  of  the  fading  twilight  this 
quaint  figure,  standing  in  the  stern  of  his 
flower-laden  boat,  swaying  to  the  rhythm  of 
his  oar,  will  recall  so  vividly  the  time  when 
that  other 

"  Dumb   old    servitor   .   .    .  went  upward   with  the 
flood," 

that  you  cannot  help  straining  your  eyes  in  a 
vain  search  for  the  fair  face  of  the  lily  maid 
of  Astolat  hidden  among  the  blossoms.  Upon 
looking  closer  you  discover  that  it  is  only  the 
gardener  of  the  convent  grounds,  on  his  way 
to  the  market  above  the  Rialto. 

If  you  continue  on,  crossing  the  Giudecca, 
or  if  you  happen  to  be  coming  from  Murano 
or  the  Lido,  you  will  pass  dozens  of  other 
boats,  loaded  to  the  water's  edge  with  bas- 
kets upon  baskets  of  peaches,  melons,  and 
figs,  or  great  heaps  of  green  vegetables, 
dashed  here  and  there  with  piles  of  blood-red 
136 


tomatoes.  All  these  boats  are  pointing  their  Open- 
bows  towards  the  Ponte  Paglia,  the  bridge  "^^  , 
on  the  Riva  between  the  Doges'  Palace  and 
the  prison,  the  one  next  the  Bridge  of  Sighs. 
Here,  in  the  afternoons  preceding  market 
days,  they  unship  their  masts  or  rearrange 
their  cargoes,  taking  off  the  top  baskets  if  too 
high  to  clear  the  arch.  Ponte  Paglia  is  the 
best  point  of  entrance  from  the  Grand  Canal, 
because  it  is  the  beginning  of  that  short-cut, 
through  a  series  of  smaller  canals,  to  the  fruit 
market  above  the  Rialto  bridge.  The  mar- 
ket opens  at  daybreak. 

Many  of  these  boats  come  from  Malamocco, 
on  the  south,  a  small  island  this  side  of  Chi- 
oggia,  and  from  beyond  the  island  known  as 
the  Madonna  of  the  Seaweed,  named  after  a 
curious  iigure  sheltered  by  a  copper  umbrella. 
Many  of  them  come  from  Torcello,  that  most 
ancient  of  the  Venetian  settlements,  and  from 
the  fruit-raising  country  back  of  it,  for  all 
Torcello  is  one  great  orchard,  with  every 
landing-wharf  piled  full  of  its  products.  Here 
you  can  taste  a  fig  so  delicately  ripe  that  it 
fairlv  melts  in  your  mouth,  and  so  sensitive 
that  it  withers  and  turns  black  almost  with 
the  handling.  Here  are  rose-pink  peaches 
the  size  of  small  melons,  and  golden  melons 
the  size  of  peaches.     Here  are  pomegranates 

137 


open-       that  burst  open  from  very  lusciousness,  and 
\l^ ,y  -    white  grapes  that  hang  in  masses,  and  melons 
and  plums  in  heaps,  and  all  sorts  of  queer  lit- 
tle round  things  that  you   never  taste   but 
once,  and  never  want  to  taste  again. 

These  fruit  gardens  and  orchards  in  the 
suburbs  of  Venice  express  the  very  waste 
and  wantonness  of  the  climate.  There  is  no 
order  in  setting  out  the  fruit,  no  plan  in 
growing,  no  system  in  gathering.  The  trees 
thrive  wherever  they  happen  to  have  taken 
root  —  here  a  peach,  here  a  pear,  there  a 
pomegranate.  The  vines  climb  the  trunks 
and  limbs,  or  swing  off  to  tottering  poles  and 
crumbling  walls.  The  watermelons  lie  flat 
on  their  backs  in  the  blazing  sun,  flaunting 
their  big  leaves  in  your  face,  their  tangled 
creepers  in  everybody's  way  and  under  every- 
body's feet.  The  peaches  cling  in  matted 
clusters,  and  the  figs  and  plums  weigh  down 
the  drooping  branches. 

If  you  happen  to  have  a  lira  about  you,  and 
own  besides  a  bushel  basket,  you  can  exchange 
the  coin  for  that  measure  of  peaches.  Two 
lire  will  load  your  gondola  half  full  of  melons ; 
three  lire  will  pack  it  with  grapes  ;  four  lire 
—  well,  you  must  get  a  larger  boat. 

When  the  boats  are  loaded  at  the  orchards 
and   poled   through  the  grass -lined  canals, 
138 


reaching  the  open  water  of  the  lagoon,  escap-  Open- 
ing  the  swarms  of  naked  boys  begging  back-^^^^^^, 
sheesh  of  fruit  from  their  cargoes,  you  will 
notice  that  each  craft  stops  at  a  square  box, 
covered  by  an  awning  and  decorated  with  a 
flag,  anchored  out  in  the  channel,  or  moored 
to  a  cluster  of  spiles.  This  is  the  Dogana  of 
the  lagoon,  and  every  basket,  crate,  and  box 
must  be  inspected  and  counted  by  the  official 
in  the  flat  cap  with  the  tarnished  gilt  band, 
who  commands  this  box  of  a  boat,  for  each 
individual  peach,  plum,  and  pear  must  help 
pay  its  share  of  the  public  debt. 

This  floating  custom-house  is  one  of  many 
beads,  strung  at  intervals  a  mile  apart,  com- 
pletely encircling  Venice.  It  is  safe  to  say 
that  nothing  that  crows,  bleats,  or  clucks, 
nothing  that  feeds,  clothes,  or  is  eaten,  ever 
breaks  through  this  charmed  circle  without 
leaving  some  portion  of  its  value  behind.  This 
creditor  takes  its  pound  of  flesh  the  moment 
it  is  due,  and  has  never  been  known  to  wait. 

Where  the  deep-water  channels  are  shift- 
ing, and  there  is  a  possibility  of  some  more 
knowing  and  perhaps  less  honest  market  craft 
slipping  past  in  the  night,  a  government  dep- 
uty silently  steals  over  the  shallow  lagoon  in 
a  rowboat,  sleeping  in  his  blanket,  his  hand 
on  his  musket,  and  rousing  at  the  faintest 

139 


open-      sound  of  rowlock  or  sail.     Almost  hourly  one 

ifi'^  ,  ,    of  these  ni<:rht-hawks  overhauls  other  strollers 
Maykets 

of  the  lagoon  in  the  by-passages  outside  the 

city  limits  —  some  smuggler,  with  cargo  care- 
fully covered,  or  perhaps  a  pair  of  lovers  in  a 
gondola  with  too  closely  drawn  tenda.  There 
is  no  warning  sound  to  the  unwary;  only  the 
gurgle  of  a  slowly-moving  oar,  then  the  muz- 
zle of  a  breech-loader  thrust  in  one's  eyes, 
behind  which  frowns  an  ugly,  determined 
face,  peering  from  out  the  folds  of  a  heavy 
boat-cloak.  It  is  the  deputy's  way  of  asking 
for  smuggled  cigarettes,  but  it  is  so  convin- 
cing a  way  as  to  admit  of  no  discussion.  Ever 
afterward  the  unfortunate  victim,  if  he  be  of 
honest  intent,  cannot  only  detect  a  police- 
boat  from  a  fishing  yawl,  but  remembers  also 
to  keep  a  light  burning  in  his  lamp-socket 
forward,  as  evidence  of  his  honesty. 

When  the  cargoes  of  the  market  boats  are 
inspected,  the  duties  paid,  and  the  passage 
made  under  Ponte  Paglia,  or  through  the 
many  nameless  canals  if  the  approach  is  made 
from  the  Campo  Santo  side  of  the  city,  the 
boats  swarm  up  to  the  fruit  market  above  the 
Rialto,  rounding  up  one  after  another,  and 
discharging  their  contents  like  trucks  at  a 
station,  the  men  piling  the  baskets  in  great 
mounds  on  the  broad  stone  quay. 
140 


After  the  inhabitants  have  pounced  upon  Open- 

Air 
Markets 


these   heaps  and    mounds  and   pyramids    of^^^ 


baskets  and  crates,  and  have  carried  them 
away,  the  market  is  swept  and  scoured  as 
clean  as  a  china  plate,  not  even  a  peach-pit 
being  left  to  tell  the  tale  of  the  morning. 
Then  this  greater  market  shrinks  into  the 
smaller  one,  the  little  fruit  market  of  the 
Rialto,  which  is  never  closed,  day  or  night. 

This  little  market,  or,  rather,  the  broad 
street  forming  its  area,  — broad  for  this  part 
of  Venice,  —  is  always  piled  high  with  the 
products  of  orchard,  vineyard,  and  garden, 
shaded  all  day  by  huge  awnings,  so  closely 
stretched  that  only  the  sharpest  and  most 
lance-like  of  sunbeams  can  cut  their  way  into 
the  coolness  below.  At  night  the  market  is 
lighted  by  flaring  torches  illumining  the 
whole  surrounding  campo. 

As  for  the  other  smaller  stands  and  shops 
about  the  city,  they  are  no  less  permanent 
fixtures,  and  keep  equally  bad  hours.  No 
matter  how  late  you  stroll  down  the  Zattere 
or  elbow  your  way  along  the  Merceria,  when 
every  other  place  is  closed,  you  will  come 
upon  a  blazing  lamp  lighting  up  a  heap  of 
luscious  fruit,  in  its  season  the  comfort  and 
sustenance  of  Venice. 

Then   there  are   the  other  markets  —  the 

141 


open-       wood  market  of  the  Giudecca,  the  fish  market 

■^'^  .       below  the  Rialto  bridge,  and  the  shops  and 

stalls  scattered  throughout  the  city. 

The  wood  market,  a  double  row  of  boats 
moored  in  mid-stream  and  stretching  up  the 
broad  waterway,  is  behind  the  Salute  and  the 
salt  warehouses  :  great,  heavy,  Dutch-bowed 
boats,  with  anchor  chains  hanging  from  the 
open  mouths  of  dolphins  carved  on  the  plank- 
ing ;  long,  sharp  bowsprits,  painted  red,  and 
great  overhanging  green  rudder-sweeps  sway- 
ing a  rudder  half  as  large  as  a  barn  door. 
Aft  there  is  always  an  awning  stretched  to 
the  mainmast,  under  which  lies  the  captain, 
generally  sound  asleep. 

When  you  board  one  of  these  floating  wood- 
yards,  and,  rousing  the  Signor  Capitano,  beg 
permission  to  spread  your  sketch-awning  on 
the  forward  deck  out  of  everybody's  way,  you 
will  not  only  get  the  best  point  of  view  from 
which  to  paint  the  exquisite  domes  and 
towers  of  the  beautiful  Santa  Maria  della 
Salute,  but,  if  you  sit  all  day  at  work,  with 
the  deck  wet  and  cool  beneath  your  feet,  and 
listen  to  the  barter  and  sale  going  on  around, 
you  will  become  familiar  with  the  workings 
of  the  market  itself.  You  will  find  all  these 
boats  loaded  under  and  above  deck  with 
sticks  of  wood  cut  about  the  size  of  an  axe- 
142 


handle,  tied  in  bundles  that  can  be  tucked  Open- 

under  one's  arm.     These  are  sold  over  the '7/'^  ,  ^ 

Markets 
ship  s  side  to  the  peddlers,  who  boat  them  off 

to  their  shops  ashore.  All  day  long  these 
hucksters  come  and  go,  some  for  a  boat-load, 
some  for  a  hundred  bundles,  some  for  only 
one.  When  the  purchase  is  important,  and 
the  count  reaches,  say,  an  even  hundred,  there 
is  always  a  squabble  over  the  tally.  The  cap- 
tain, of  course,  counts,  and  so  does  the  mate, 
and  so  does  the  buyer.  As  soon  as  the  con- 
troversy reaches  the  point  where  there  is  no- 
thing left  but  to  brain  the  captain  with  one 
of  his  own  fagots,  he  gives  in,  and  throws  an 
extra  bundle  into  the  boat,  however  honest 
may  have  been  the  count  before.  The  in- 
stantaneous good-humor  developed  all  around 
at  the  concession  is  only  possible  among  a 
people  who  quarrel  as  easily  as  they  sing. 

Wood  is  really  almost  the  only  fuel  in 
Venice.  Coal  is  too  costly,  and  the  means  of 
utilizing  it  too  complicated.  What  is  wanted 
is  a  handful  of  embers  over  which  to  boil  a 
pot  of  coffee  or  warm  a  soup,  a  little  fire  at 
a  time,  and  as  little  as  possible,  for,  unlike 
many  another  commodity,  fuel  is  a  bugbear 
of  economy  to  the  Venetian.  He  rarely  wor- 
ries over  his  rent ;  it  is  his  wood-bill  that 
keeps  him  awake  nights. 

143 


Opm-  Above  the  fruit  market  near  the  Rialto  is 

■?,''',  the  new  fish  market,  a  modern  horror  of  cast 
iron  and  ribbed  glass.  (Oh,  if  the  polluting 
touch  of  so-called  modern  progress  could 
only  be  kept  away  from  this  rarest  of  cities  !) 
Here  are  piled  and  hung  and  spread  out  the 
endless  varieties  of  fish  and  sea  foods  from 
the  lagoons  and  the  deep  waters  beyond ; 
great  halibut,  with  bellies  of  Japanese  porce- 
lain, millions  of  minnows,  like  heaps  of  wet 
opals  with  shavings  of  pearl,  crabs,  fulpe, 
mussels,  and  the  spoils  of  the  marshes.  Out- 
side, along  the  canal,  are  ranged  the  market 
boats,  with  their  noses  flattened  against  the 
stone  quay,  their  sails  clewed  up,  freeing  the 
decks,  the  crews  bending  under  huge  baskets. 
Fish  is  the  natural  flesh-food  of  the  Ve- 
netian, fresh  every  morning,  and  at  a  price 
for  even  the  poorest.  If  there  is  not  money 
enough  for  a  clean  slice  cut  through  the 
girth  of  a  sea-monster,  for  a  broil,  less  than  a 
soldo  will  buy  a  handful  of  little  nondescripts 
like  fat  spiders,  for  soup,  or  a  pint  of  pebble- 
like mussels  with  which  to  savor  a  stew. 
144 


ON  RAINY  DAYS 

jHE  wind  blows  east !  All  night 
long  the  thunder  of  the  surf, 
breaking  along  the  Lido,  has 
reverberated  through  the  de- 
serted streets  and  abandoned 
canals  of  Venice. 

From  your  window  you  see  the  fair  goddess 
of  the  Dogana,  tired  out  with  the  whirling 
winds,  clinging  in  despair  to  the  golden  ball 
—  her  sail  flying  westward,  her  eyes  strained 
in  search  of  the  lost  sun.  You  see,  too,  the 
shallow  lagoons,  all  ashy  pale,  crawling  and 
shivering  in  the  keen  air,  their  little  waves 
flying  shoreward  as  if  for  shelter. 

Out  beyond  San  Giorgio,  the  fishing-boats 
are  tethered  to  the  spiles,  their  decks  swept 
by  fierce  dashes  of  rain,  their  masts  rocking 
wearily.  Nearer  in,  this  side  the  island,  two 
gondolas  with  drenched  fclsi,  manned  by 
figures  muffled  in  oilskins,  fight  every  inch 
of  the  way  to  the  Molo  ;  they  hug  in  mid- 
stream the  big  P.  and  O.  steamer  lying  sullen 
and  deserted,  her  landing-ladder  hanging  use- 
less, the  puffs  of  white  steam  beaten  flat 
against  her  red  smoke-stacks.  Across  the 
deserted  canal  the  domes  of  the  Salute  glisten 

145 


On  like  burnished  silver  in  the  white  light  of  the 

Ratny  gale,  and  beyond  these,  tatters  of  gray  cloud- 
rack  scud  in  from  the  sea.  Along  the  quays 
of  the  Dogana  the  stevedores  huddle  in 
groups  beneath  the  sheltering  arches,  watch- 
ing the  half -loaded  boats  surge  and  jar  in  the 
ground-swell  of  the  incoming  sea.  In  the 
garden  at  your  very  feet  lie  the  bruised  blos- 
soms of  the  oleanders,  their  storm-beaten 
branches  hanging  over  the  wall,  fagged  out 
with  the  battle  of  the  night.  Even  the 
drenched  tables  under  the  dripping  arbors 
are  strewn  with  wind-swept  leaves,  and  the 
overturned  chairs  are  splashed  with  sand. 

All  the  light,  all  the  color,  all  the  rest  and 
charm  and  loveliness  of  Venice,  are  dead. 
All  the  tea-rose,  sun-warmed  marble,  all  the 
soft  purples  of  shifting  shadows,  all  the  pearly 
light  of  summer  cloud  and  the  silver  shim- 
mer of  the  ever-changing,  million-tinted  sea, 
are  gone.  Only  cold,  gray  stone  and  dull,  yel- 
low water,  reflecting  leaden  skies,  and  black- 
stained  columns  and  water-soaked  steps ! 
Only  brown  sails,  wet,  colorless  gondolas  and 
disheartened,  baffled  pigeons  !  To-day  the 
wind  blows  east ! 

When  the  tide  turns  flood,  the  waters  of 
the  lagoon,  driven  by  the  high  wind,  begin 
to  rise.     Up  along  the  Molo,  where  the  gon- 
146 


dolas  land  their  passengers,  the  gondoliers  On 
have  taken  away  their  wooden  steps.  Now^*^^^ 
the  sea  is  level  with  the  top  stone  of  the 
pavement,  and  there  are  yet  two  hours  to 
high  water.  All  about  the  caffes  under  the 
Library,  the  men  stand  in  groups,  sheltered 
from  the  driving  rain  by  the  heavy  canvas 
awnings  laid  fiat  against  the  door  columns. 
Every  few  minutes  some  one  consults  his 
watch,  peering  anxiously  out  to  sea.  A 
waiter  serving  coffee  says,  in  an  undertone, 
that  it  is  twelve  years  since  the  women  went 
to  San  Marco  in  boats ;  then  the  water  rose 
to  the  sacristy  floor. 

Under  the  arcades  and  between  the  col- 
umns of  the  Doges'  Palace  is  packed  a 
dense  mass  of  people,  watching  the  angry, 
lawless  sea.  Wagers  are  freely  laid  that  un- 
less the  wind  shifts  the  church  itself  will  be 
flooded  at  high  water.  The  gondoliers  are 
making  fast  their  unused /i?/j"z,  lashing  them 
to  the  iron  lamp-posts.  Along  the  Molo  the 
boats  themselves,  lashed  fore  and  aft  to  the 
slender  poles,  are  rocking  restlessly  to  and 
fro. 

Suddenly  a  loud  cheer  breaks  from  the 
throng  nearest  the  water's  edge,  and  a  great, 
surging  wave  dashes  across  the  flat  stone  and 
spreads  quickly  in  widening  circles  of  yellow 

147 


Days 


On  foam  over  the  marble  flagging  of  the  Piaz- 

^"^^  zetta.  Then  another  and  another,  bubbling 
between  the  iron  tables  and  chairs  of  the 
caffes,  swashing  around  the  bases  of  the  col- 
umns, and  so  on  like  a  mill  -  race,  up  and 
around  the  Loggictta  of  the  Campanile,  and 
on  into  the  Piazza  with  a  rush.  A  wild 
shout  goes  up  from  the  caffes  and  arcades. 
The  waiters  run  quickly  hither  and  thither, 
heaping  up  the  chairs  and  tables.  The  shop- 
men are  closing  their  shutters  and  catching 
up  their  goods.  The  windows  of  the  Procii- 
ratie  are  filled  with  faces  overjoyed  at  the 
sight.  Troops  of  boys,  breechless  almost  to 
their  suspender  buttons,  are  splashing  about 
in  glee.  The  sea  is  on  the  rampage.  The 
bridegroom  is  in  search  of  the  bride.  This 
time  the  Adriatic  has  come  to  wed  the  city. 
Another  hour  with  the  wind  east,  and  only 
the  altar  steps  of  San  Marco  will  suffice  for 
the  ceremony  ! 

Another  shout  comes  from  the  Piazzetta. 
There  is  a  great  waving  of  hands  and  hats. 
Windows  are  thrown  open  everywhere.  The 
pigeons  sweep  in  circles ;  never  in  the  mem- 
ory of  their  oldest  inhabitant  has  there  been 
such  a  sight.  In  the  excitement  of  the  hour 
a  crippled  beggar  slips  from  a  bench  and  is 
half-drowned  on  the  sidewalk. 
148 


Another  and  a  louder  roar,  and  a  gondola  On 
rowed  by  a  man  in  tarpaulins  floats  past  the  ^"^y 
Campanile,  moves  majestically  up  the  flood, 
and    grounds   on   the    lower    steps   of   San 
Marco.     The  boys  plunge  in  and  push,  the 
women  laugh  and  clap  their  hands. 

From  the  steps  of  the  arcade  of  the  Li- 
brary, men  with  bared  thighs  are  carrying 
the  shop-girls  to  the  entrance  of  the  Merceria 
under  the  clock  tower.  Some  of  the  women 
are  venturing  alone,  their  shoes  and  stockings 
held  above  their  heads.  Farther  down,  near 
the  corner  column  of  the  Doges'  Palace,  a 
big  woman,  her  feet  and  ankles  straight  out, 
is  breaking  the  back  of  a  little  man  who 
struggles  along  hip-deep,  followed  by  the 
laughter  of  the  whole  Piazzetta. 

In  the  campo  fronting  the  church  of  San 
Moise,  a  little  square  hemmed  around  by 
high  buildings,  the  sea,  having  overflowed  the 
sewers,  is  spurting  small  geysers  through  the 
cracks  in  the  pavement ;  thumping  and 
pounding  a  nest  of  gondolas  moored  under 
the  bridge. 

Out  on  the  Piazzetta  a  group  of  men,  bare- 
legged and  bareheaded,  are  constructing  a 
wooden  bridge  from  the  higher  steps  of  the 
arcade  of  the  Library  to  the  equally  high 
steps  surrounding  the  base  of  the  column  of 

149 


On  Saint  Theodore,  and  so  on  to  the  corner  col- 

Ranty  ^jj^^,^  Qf  j-j^g  Doges'  Palace.  They  are  led  by 
a  young  fellow  wearing  a  discarded  fatigue- 
cap,  his  trousers  tied  around  his  ankles.  The 
only  dry  spot  about  him  is  the  lighted  end  of 
a  cigarette.  This  is  Vittorio  —  up  from  the 
Via  Garibaldi — out  on  a  lark.  He  and  his 
fellows  —  Luigi  and  the  rest  —  have  splashed 
along  the  Riva  with  all  the  gusto  of  a  pack 
of  boys  reveling  in  an  October  snow.  They 
have  been  soaking  wet  since  daylight,  and 
propose  to  remain  so  until  it  stops  raining. 
The  building  of  the  bridge  was  an  inspiration 
of  Vittorio,  and  in  five  minutes  every  loose 
plank  about  the  tragJietto  is  caught  up  and 
thrown  together,  until  a  perilous  staging  is 
erected.  Upon  this  Luigi  dances  and  pirou- 
ettes to  prove  its  absolute  stability.  When 
it  topples  over  with  the  second  passenger,  car- 
rying with  it  a  fat  priest  in  purple  robe  and 
shovel  hat,  who  is  late  for  the  service  and 
must  reach  the  Riva,  Luigi  roars  with  laugh- 
ter, stands  his  Reverence  on  his  feet,  and,  be- 
fore he  can  protest,  has  hoisted  him  aback 
and  plunged  knee-deep  into  the  flood. 

The  crowd  yell  and  cheer,  Vittorio  holding 
his  sides  with   laughter,  until  the  dry  flag- 
ging of  the  palace  ojoposite  is  reached,  and 
the  reverend  gentleman,  all  smiles  and  bene- 
150 


i 


dictions,  glides   like  a  turtle  down    Luigi's  Oft 
back.  J^^y 

But  the  tramps  from  the  Via  Garibaldi  are 
not  satisfied.  Luigi  and  Vittorio  and  little 
stumpy  Appo,  who  can  carry  a  sack  of  salt  as 
easily  as  a  pail  of  water,  now  fall  into  line, 
offering  their  broad  backs  for  other  passen- 
gers, Vittorio  taking  up  a  collection  in  his 
hat,  the  others  wading  about,  pouncing  down 
upon  derelict  oars,  barrels,  bits  of  plank,  and 
the  debris  of  the  wrecked  bridge.  When  no 
more  soldi  for  ferry-tolls  are  forthcoming, 
and  no  more  Venetians,  male  or  female,  can 
be  found  reckless  or  hurried  enough  to  intrust 
their  precious  bodies  to  Luigi's  shoulders,  the 
gang  falls  to  work  on  a  fresh  bridge.  This 
Vittorio  has  discovered  hidden  away  in  the 
recesses  of  the  Library  cellars,  where  it  has 
lain  since  the  last  time  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Sea  came  bounding  over  the  Molo  wall. 
There  are  saw-horses  for  support,  and  long 
planks  with  rusty  irons  fastened  to  each  end, 
and  braces,  and  cross-pieces.  All  these  are 
put  up,  and  the  bridge  made  entirely  practi- 
cable, within  half  an  hour.  Then  the  people 
cross  and  recross,  while  the  silent  gendarmes 
look  on  with  good-natured  and  lazy  indiffer- 
ence. One  very  grateful  passenger  drops  a 
few  soldi  into  Vittorio's  water-soaked  fatigue- 

151 


On  cap.     Another,  less  generous,  pushes  him  to 

Kainy  ^^^  side,  crowding  some  luckless  fellow,  who 
jumps  overboard  up  to  his  knees  to  save  him- 
self from  total  immersion,  the  girls  screaming 
with  assumed  fright,  Vittorio  coaxing  and 
pleading,  and  Luigi  laughing  louder  than 
ever. 

At  this  moment  a  steamboat  from  the  Lido 
attempts  to  make  fast  to  her  wharf,  some 
hundreds  of  feet  down  the  Molo.  As  the 
landing-planks  are  afloat  and  the  whole  dock 
awash,  the  women  and  children  under  the 
awnings  of  the  after-deck,  although  within 
ten  feet  of  the  solid  stone  wall,  are  as  much 
at  sea  as  if  they  were  off  the  Lido.  Vittorio 
and  his  mates  take  in  the  situation  at  a 
glance,  and  are  alongside  in  an  instant. 
Within  five  minutes  a  plank  is  lashed  to  a 
wharf -pile,  a  rope  bridge  is  constructed,  and 
Vittorio  begins  passing  the  children  along, 
one  by  one,  dropping  them  over  Luigi's 
shoulders,  who  stands  knee-deep  on  the  dock. 
Then  the  women  are  picked  up  bodily,  the 
men  follow  astride  the  shoulders  of  the 
others,  and  the  impatient  boat  moves  off  to 
her  next  landing-place  up  the  Giudecca. 

By  this  time  hundreds  of  people  from  all 
over  the  city  are  pouring  into  the  Piazza,  de- 
spite  the  driving   rain   and   gusts   of  wind. 
152 


They  move  in  a  solid  mass  along  the  higher  On 
arcades  of  the  Library  and  the  Palace.  They  ^^^y 
crawl  upon  the  steps  of  the  columns  and  the 
sockets  of  the  flag-staffs  ;  they  cling  to  the 
rail  and  pavement  of  t\\Q  Loggietta  —  wher- 
ever a  footing  can  be  gained  above  the  water- 
line.  To  a  Venetian  nothing  is  so  fascinat- 
ing as  a  spectacle  of  any  kind,  but  it  has  been 
many  a  day  since  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea 
played  the  principal  role  himself  ! 

There  is  no  weeping  or  wailing  about  wet 
cellars  and  damp  basements,  no  anxiety  over 
damaged  furniture  and  water-soaked  carpets. 
All  Venetian  basements  are  damp  ;  it  is  their 
normal  condition.  If  the  water  runs  in,  it 
will  run  out  again.  They  have  known  this 
Old  Sea  King  for  centuries,  and  they  know 
every  whim  in  his  head.  As  long  as  the 
Murazziho\d  —  the  great  stone  dykes  breast- 
ing the  Adriatic  outside  the  lagoons  —  Ven- 
ice is  safe.  To-morrow  the  blessed  sun  will 
shine  again,  and  the  warm  air  will  dry  up  the 
last  vestige  of  the  night's  frolic. 

Suddenly  the  wind  changes.  The  rain 
ceases.  Light  is  breaking  in  the  west.  The 
weather  vane  on  the  Campanile  glows  and 
flashes.  Now  a  flood  of  sunshine  bursts 
forth  from  a  halo  of  lemon-colored  sky.  The 
joyous  pigeons  glint  like  flakes  of  gold.     Then 

153 


On  a  shout  comes  from  the  Molo.     The  sea  is 

Kainy      fallins:  !     The  gondolier  who  has  dared    the 
Days  .  . 

centre  of  the  Piazza  springs  to  his  oar,  strips 

off  his  oil-skins,  throws  them  into  his  boat, 
and  plunges  overboard  waist-deep,  seizing 
his  gondola  by  the  bow.  The  boys  dash  in 
on  either  side.  Now  for  the  Molo !  The 
crowd  breaks  into  cheers.  On  it  goes, 
grounding  near  the  Porta  della  Carta,  bump- 
ing over  the  stone  flagging  ;  afloat  again,  the 
boatmen  from  the  Molo  leaping  in  to  meet 
it ;  then  a  rush,  a  cheer,  and  the  endangered 
gondola  clears  the  coping  of  the  wall  and  is 
safe  at  her  moorings. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  little  children  in 
their  white  summer  dresses,  the  warm  sun- 
shine in  their  faces,  are  playing  in  the  sea- 
weed that  strews  the  pavements  of  the  Piaz- 
zetta. 

154 


LEGACIES    OF   THE   PAST 

lILL  you  have  the  kindness  to 
present  Professor  Croisac's  pro- 
found adoration  to  the  Contessa 
Albrizzi,  and  say  that  he  hum- 
bly begs  permission  to  conduct 
his  friend,  a  most  distinguished  painter, 
through  the  noble  salons  of  her  palazzo  ?  " 

It  was  the  Professor,  standing  bare-headed 
on  the  landing  steps  of  the  entrance  to  the 
Palazzo  Albrizzi,  the  one  lonely  glove  break- 
ing the  rounded  outline  of  his  well-brushed 
hat.  He  was  talking  to  a  portly  Italian  who 
did  duty  as  Cerberus.  As  for  myself,  I  was 
tucked  back  under  the  tenda,  awaiting  the 
result  of  the  conference,  Espero  smiling  at 
the  old  fellow's  elaborate  address  and  man- 
ners. 

The  porter  bowed  low,  and  explained,  with 
much  earnestness,  that  the  Ilhistrissima  was 
then  sojourning  at  her  country-seat  in  the 
Tyrol ;  adding  that,  despite  this  fact,  the 
whole  palace,  including  the  garden  and  its 
connecting  bridge,  from  the  court-yard  to  the 
roof,  was  completely  at  the  service  of  the 
Signor  Professore. 

"  And  all  for  two  //r^,"  whispered  Espero, 

155 


Legacies   to  whom  the  old  gentleman  was  a  constant 

of  the       source  of  amusement,  and  who  could  never 
Past 

quite  understand  why  most  of  his  talking  was 

done  with  his  back  bent  at  right  angles  to 

his  slender  legs.     So  we  followed  the  porter 

up  the  stone  staircase,  around  its  many  turns, 

to  the  grand  hall  above,  with  its  rich  pictures 

panelled  on  the  walls,  and  so  on  through  the 

various  rooms  of  white  stucco  and  old  gold 

brocades,  to  the  grand  salon,  the  one  with 

the  famous  ceiling. 

The  night  before,  over  a  glass  of  Torino 
vermouth  at  Florian's,  the  Professor  had  in- 
sisted that  I  should  not  live  another  day  until 
he  had  piloted  me  through  all  those  relics  of 
the  past,  illustrative  of  an  age  in  Venice  as 
sumptuous  as  it  was  artistic. 

First  of  all  I  must  see  the  gorgeous  ceil- 
ings of  the  Albrizzi ;  then  the  curious  vine- 
covered  bridge  leading  out  of  the  Contessa's 
boudoir  to  a  garden  across  the  narrow  canal, 
as  secluded  as  the  groves  of  Eden  before 
Adam  stepped  into  them.  Then  I  must  ex- 
amine the  grand  Palazzo  Rezzonico,  begun 
by  Longhena  in  1680,  and  completed  sixty 
years  later  by  Massari ;  once  the  home  of 
Pope  Clement  XIII.,  and  again  made  immor- 
tal as  sheltering  the  room  in  which  Browning 
had  breathed  his  last.  There,  too,  was  the 
X56 


Barbaro,  with  its  great  flight  of  stone  steps  Legacies 
sweeping  up  and  around  two  sides  of  a  court  ^^'l^ 
to  the  picturesque  entrance  on  the  second 
floor,  —  the  Barbaro,  with  its  exquisite  salon, 
by  far  the  most  beautiful  in  Europe.  There 
was  the  Palazzo  Pisani,  built  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  its  galleries  still  hung  with  Venetian 
mirrors ;  and  the  Palazzo  Pesaro,  designed  by 
this  same  Longhena  in  1679,  the  home  of  an 
illustrious  line  of  Venetian  nobles  from  Leo- 
nardo Pesaro  down  to  the  Doge  Giovanni, 
with  its  uncanny  row  of  grotesque  heads  of 
boars,  bulls,  and  curious  beasts  studded  along 
the  water-table  of  the  first  story,  a  hand's 
touch  from  your  gondola,  so  grotesque  and 
quaint  that  each  one  looked  like  a  night- 
mare solidified  into  stone.  There  were  also 
the  Dandolo,  where  lived  the  great  Doge 
Enrico  Dandolo,  the  conqueror  of  Constanti- 
nople, —  conqueror  at  ninety-seven  years  of 
age ;  the  Farsetti,  where  Canova  studied,  in 
his  time  an  academy ;  the  Barbarigo,  where 
Titian  once  held  court ;  the  Mocenigo,  where 
Byron  lived ;  not  to  mention  the  veritable 
home  of  the  veritable  Desdemona,  including 
the  identical  balcony  where  Othello  breathed 
his  love. 

All  these  I  must  see,  and  more.     More  in 
out-of-the-way    churches    like    San    Giorgio 

^57 


Legacies  della  Schiavoni,  with  the  Carpaccios  that  are 
oft/ie  g^jij  ^g  brilliant  as  when  the  great  painter 
laid  down  his  brush.  More  in  the  Gesuati 
up  the  Zattere,  with  its  exquisite  Tiepolos. 
Infinitely  more  in  the  school  of  San  Rocco, 
especially  behind  the  altars  and  under  the 
choir-loft  ;  in  the  Frari  next  door,  and  in  a 
dozen  other  picturesque  churches  ;  and  away 
out  to  Torcello,  the  mother  of  Venice,  with 
its  one  temple,  —  the  earliest  of  Venetian 
cathedrals,  —  its  theatre-like  rows  of  seats, 
and  the  ancient  slate  shutters  swinging  on 
huge  hinges  of  stone. 

But  to  return  to  the  Professor,  who  is  still 
gazing  up  into  the  exquisite  ceiling  of  the 
salon  of  the  Contessa,  pointing  out  to  me 
the  boldness  and  beauty  of  the  design,  a 
white  sheet  drawn  taut  at  the  four  corners 
by  four  heroic  nude  figures,  its  drooping  folds 
patted  up  against  the  ceiling  proper  by  a  flut- 
ter of  life-sized,  winged  cupids  flying  in  the 
air,  in  high  relief,  or  half  smothered  in  its 
folds. 

"  Nothing  gives  you  so  clear  an  idea  of  the 
lives  these  great  nobles  lived,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor, "as  your  touching  something  they 
touched,  walking  through  their  homes  —  the 
homes  they  lived  in  —  and  examining  inch 
by  inch  the  things  they  lived  with.  Now  this 
158 


Palazzo  Albrizzi  is,  perhaps,  less  spacious  and  Legacies 
less  costly  than  many  others  of  the  period  ;^^':^ 
but,  for  all  that,  look  at  the  grand  hall,  with 
its  sides  a  continuous  line  of  pictures  !  Its 
ceiling  a  marvel  of  stucco  and  rich-colored 
canvases  !  Do  you  find  anything  like  this 
outside  of  Venice?  And  now  come  through 
the  salon,  all  white  and  gold,  to  the  bridge 
spanning  the  canal.  Here,  you  see,  is  where 
my  lady  steps  across  and  so  down  into  her 
garden  when  she  would  be  alone.  You  must 
admit  that  this  is  quite  unique." 

The  Professor  was  right.  A  bridge  from 
a  boudoir  to  a  garden  wall,  sixty  or  more 
feet  above  the  water-line,  is  unusual,  even  in 
Venice. 

And  such  a  bridge !  All  smothered  in 
vines,  threading  their  way  in  and  out  the  iron 
lattice-work  of  the  construction,  and  sending 
their  tendrils  swinging,  heads  down,  like  ac- 
robats, to  the  water  below.  And  such  a  gar- 
den !  Framed  in  by  high  prison  walls,  their 
tops  patrolled  by  sentinels  of  stealthy  creep- 
ers and  wide-eyed  morning-glories !  A  gar- 
den with  a  little  glass-covered  arbor  in  the 
centre  plot,  holding  a  tiny  figure  of  the  Vir- 
gin ;  circular  stone  benches  for  two,  and  no 
more;  tree-trunks  twisted  into  seats,  with 
encircling  branches  for  shoulders  and  back, 

159 


Legacies  and  all,  too,  a  thousand  miles  in  the  wilder- 
^t,  ''^  ness  for  anything  you  could  hear  or  see  of 
the  life  of  the  great  city  about  you.  A  gar- 
den for  lovers  and  intrigues  and  secret  plots, 
and  muffled  figures  smuggled  through  mys- 
terious water-gates,  and  stolen  whisperings 
in  the  soft  summer  night.  A  garden  so 
utterly  shut  in,  and  so  entirely  shut  out,  that 
the  daughter  of  a  Doge  could  take  her  morn- 
ing bath  in  the  fountain  with  all  the  privacy 
of  a  boudoir, 

"Yes,"  said  the  Professor,  with  a  slight 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  "  these  old  Venetians 
knew ;  and  perhaps  some  of  the  modern 
ones." 

And  so  we  spent  the  day,  rambling  in  and 
out  of  a  dozen  or  more  of  these  legacies  of 
the  past,  climbing  up  wide  palatial  staircases  ; 
some  still  inhabited  by  the  descendants  of 
the  noble  families ;  others  encumbered  with 
new  and  old  furniture,  packing-boxes  and 
loose  straw,  now  magazines  for  goods  ;  gazing 
up  at  the  matchless  equestrian  statue  of  Col- 
leoni,  the  most  beautiful  the  world  over; 
rambling  through  the  San  Giovanni  e  Paolo  ; 
stopping  here  and  there  to  sketch,  perhaps 
the  Madonna  over  the  gate  next  the  Rezzo- 
nico,  or  some  sculptured  lion  surmounting 
the  newel-post  of  a  still  more  ancient  stair- 
i6o 


WIDE    PALATIAL    STAIRCASES 


case  ;  prying  into  back  courts  or  up  crum-  Legacies 
bling  staircases,  or  opening  dust-begrimed  ^^'^^'^ 
windows  only  to  step  out  upon  unkept  bal- 
conies overhanging  abandoned  gardens  ;  every 
carving,  pillar,  and  rafter  but  so  much  testi- 
mony to  the  wealth,  power,  and  magnificence 
of  these  rulers  of  the  earth. 

"  And  now  to  the  Caffe  Calcina  for  lunch- 
eon, Espero." 

When  we  had  dodged  into  its  open  door 
out  of  the  heat,  and  were  seated  at  one  of  its 
little  square  tables  under  the  grapevines,  the 
Professor  fished  up  two  books  from  that  ca- 
pacious inside  pocket  of  his,  and  with  much 
explanatory  preface  of  how  he  had  searched 
through  all  the  book-stalls  of  the  Rialto,  find- 
ing them  at  last  in  the  great  library  of  the 
Doge's  Palace  itself,  wiped  their  faded  covers 
with  a  napkin,  and  turned  the  leaves  tenderly 
with  his  withered  fingers. 

"And  just  see  what  festivities  went  on  in 
these  great  palaces  !  Here  is  a  little  book 
written  by  Giustina  Renier  Michiel,  and  pub- 
lished early  in  the  century.  It  is  especially 
interesting  as  throwing  some  light  on  the 
wonderful  festivities  of  the  olden  time.  You 
remember  the  Palazzo  Nani,  the  palace  we 
saw  after  leaving  the  Dandolo  .<*  Well,  listen 
to  this  account  of  a  wonderful /^'/^  given  in 

i6i 


Legacies  the  beginning  of  the  last  century  at  this  very 
of  the       palace  "  —  the  Professor  had  closed  the  book 
over  his  finger  —  he  knew  the  description  by 
heart. 

"  Michiel  says  that  owing  to  the  intense 
cold  the  lagoon  was  frozen  over  as  far  as 
Mestre,  so  the  hospitable  host  warmed  every 
part  of  the  palace  with  huge  stoves  made  of 
solid  silver,  elaborately  wrought  in  exquisite 
designs  ;  and  not  content  with  the  sum  of 
that  outlay,  he  completed  the  appointments 
and  decorations  in  the  same  precious  metal, 
even  to  the  great  candelabra  lighting  the  en- 
trance hall.  And  then,  as  a  mere  freak  of 
hospitality,  — he  had  a  large  visiting  list,  you 
may  be  sure, — he  added  ten  rooms  to  his 
varied  suites,  in  each  one  of  which  he  placed 
musicians  of  different  nationalities,  just  to 
prevent  crowding,  you  see. 

"  And  now  let  me  read  you  of  another. 
Part  of  the  palace  referred  to  here,"  he  added, 
**  has,  I  believe,  been  destroyed  these  many 
years.  It  was  the  home  of  Patrizio  Grimani 
—  the  palace  where  we  saw  the  line  portrait 
of  a  Doge  hanging  near  the  window.  That 
must  have  been  the  room  in  which  the  ban- 
quet took  place.  The  stage  referred  to  must 
have  been  erected  in  the  room  opening  out 
from  it.  The  author  Michiel  says,  in  describ- 
162 


ing  a  princely y//^  that  took  place  here,  that  Legacies 
'after  the  play  ' — performed  by  his  private ^^^"^ 
company  in  his  own  theatre,  remember  — '  the 
guests  were  ushered  into  an  adjoining  room 
and  the  doors  closed.  In  half  an  hour  the 
doors  were  re-opened,  discovering  a  superb 
ballroom,  with  every  vestige  of  the  theatre 
and  its  appointments  swept  away.' 

"All  years  and  years  ago,  mon  ami"  con- 
tinued the  Professor,  closing  the  book,  "and  in 
the  very  room  that  you  and  I  walked  through  ! 
Think  of  the  balconies  crowded  with  Vene- 
tian beauties  in  the  richest  of  brocades  and 
jewels  !  Imagine  that  same  old  ruin  of  a 
garden,  roofed  over  and  brilliant  with  a  thou- 
sand lanterns  !  See  the  canals  packed  with 
gondolas,  the  torch-bearers  lighting  the  way ! 
Bah  !  When  I  think  of  the  flare  of  modern 
gas-jets  along  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  the 
crush  of  fiacres  and  carriages,  all  held  in 
check  by  a  score  of  gendarmes  in  black 
coats  ;  of  the  stuffy  rooms  and  screeching 
violins ;  and  then  drink  in  the  memory  of 
these  fetes,  with  their  sumptuousness  and 
grandeur,  I  can  hardly  restrain  my  disgust 
for  the  cheap  shams  of  our  times. 

"And  here  is  another  ancient  chronicle  of 
quite  a  different  kind,"  opening  the  other 
book.      "  You  will  find  it  more  or  less  dififi- 

163 


Legacies  cult,  for  it  is  in  old  Italian,  and  some  of  its 
^f^^''^  sentences,  even  with  my  knowledge  of  the 
language,"  —  this  with  a  certain  wave  of  the 
hand,  as  if  no  one  had  ever  disputed  it,  —  "I 
can  only  guess  at.  This,  too,  came  from  the 
library  in  the  Doge's  Palace,  and  is  especially 
valuable  as  showing  how  little  change  there 
is  between  the  Venice  of  to-day  and  the  Ven- 
ice of  a  century  and  a  half  ago,  so  far  as 
localities  and  old  landmarks  go.  The  cus- 
toms, I  am  delighted  to  say,  have  somewhat 
improved.  It  was  written  by  one  Edmondo 
Lundy  in  1750.  ^  He  evidently  came  down 
to  Venice  to  try  his  wings,  and  from  his 
notes  I  should  say  he  spread  them  to  some 
purpose.  He  first  fell  into  the  clutches  of 
a  grand  dame,  —  a  certain  noble  lady,  a 
Diichessa,  —  who  sent  for  him  the  day  after 
he  arrived,  and  who  complimented  him  upon 
his  bearing  and  personal  attractions.  Then 
she  explained  that  all  Venetian  ladies  of  posi- 
tion had  attached  to  their  persons  a  gentle- 
man in  waiting,  a  sort  of  valet  de  place  of  the 
heart,  as  it  were,  who  made  love  to  them  in 
a  kind  of  lute-and-guitar-fashion,  with  ditties 
and  song ;  that  she  had  seen  him  on  the  Riva 
the  afternoon  before,  had  admired  his  figure 
and  face,  and  being  at  the  moment  without 

^  Misteri  di  Veiiezia^  di  Edmondo  Ltmdy. 
164 


any  such  attendant  herself  had  determined  Legacies 

to  offer  him  the  situation.     His  beinsr  a  iox-^fJ^^ 

1  ast 
eigner  only  increased  her  ardor,  foreigners 

being  at  a  high  premium  for  such  positions 
in  those  days.  Although  the  Duchessa  had 
already  a  husband  of  her  own,  was  wrinkled, 
partly  bald,  and  over  sixty,  Lundy,  the  gay 
cavalier,  fell  into  the  scheme.  It  is  delight- 
ful to  hear  him  tell  of  how  the  strange  court- 
ship progressed,  one  incident  in  particular : 
It  was  the  custom  of  the  fashionable  set  of 
the  day  to  drift  out  in  their  gondolas  up  the 
Giudecca  in  the  twilight,  right  in  front  of 
where  we  now  sit ;  you  can  see  the  spot  from 
this  window.  Here  they  would  anchor  in 
mid-stream  and  listen  to  recitals  of  music 
and  poetry  by  some  of  the  more  gifted  cava- 
liers,—  lines  from  Dante  and  Tasso, — the 
servants  and  gondoliers  serving  the  ices, 
which  were  all  brought  from  this  very  Caff6 
Calcina.  See,  the  name  was  spelled  the  same 
way.  Does  it  not  make  you  feel,  as  you  sit 
here,  that  you  have  only  to  shut  your  eyes 
to  bring  it  all  back .-'  Oh,  the  grand  days  of 
the  Republic !  These  old  vines  above  our 
heads  could  tell  a  story  ! 

"  But  it  seems  that  even  the  Duchessa 
palled  on  so  versatile  a  cavalier  as  Lundy. 
She  really  bored  him  to  death,  so  he  hunts 

i6s 


Legacies  out  a  friend,  explains  the  situation,  and  begs 
of  the  |.|^^|.  ]^g  ^yjii  ggt  hjjj^  out  of  the  scrape.  The 
Past  . 

friend  writes  a  letter  to  Milan,  and  has  it  re- 
delivered to  Lundy,  summoning  him  instantly 
to  the  bedside  of  a  dying  relative.  This  let- 
ter is  shown  to  the  DucJiessa,  who  parts  with 
him  with  many  tears  and  protestations,  and 
Lundy  leaves  Venice.  In  three  months  he 
returns,  hoping  that  some  other  equally  hand- 
some and  attractive  young  foreigner  has 
taken  his  place.  Alas  !  the  black  drapings 
of  the  Duchessa  s  gondola  announce  her 
death.  And  now  comes  the  most  comical 
part  of  it  all.  In  her  will  she  left  him  a 
thousand  lire  to  purchase  some  souvenir  ex- 
pressive of  the  love  and  devotion  with  which 
he  had  inspired  her  ! 

"  Further  on  Lundy  tells  how  he  watched 
for  hours  the  efforts  of  two  priests  to  get  a 
breakfast.  They  were  strung  half  way  up 
the  Campanile,  suspended  outside  the  tower, 
between  heaven  and  earth,  in  an  iron  cage. 
That,  it  seems,  was  the  punishment  inflicted 
on  such  unworthy  gentlemen  of  the  Church, 
They  were  considered  to  be  better  equipped 
than  their  parishioners  to  resist  temptation, 
and  so  when  they  went  astray  they  were 
strung  up,  like  birds,  in  a  cage.  The  only 
way  these  Lotharios  got  anything  to  eat  was 
i66 


by  letting  down  a  string,  to  which  some  chciv- Le^^aa'es 

itable  soul  would  tie  a  flagon  of  wine  or  a.^-^^^t^ 

Fast 
loaf  of  bread.     This  morning  the  string  was 

too  short,   and   Lundy  had    no   end  of   fun 

watching  their  efforts  to  piece  it  out   with 

rosaries  and  sandal-lacings. 

"Another  time  he  was  stopped  by  a  poet 
on  the  Piazza,  right  in  front  of  where  Flo- 
rian's  now  stands  ;  the  same  caffe,  perhaps, 
who  knows .''  In  those  days,  quite  as  it  is 
now,  the  Piazza  was  a  rendezvous  for  all 
Venice.  All  the  doctors  went  there  in  search 
of  patients,  soliciting  their  patronage  and 
holding  out  their  diplomas.  The  mounte- 
banks had  performances  on  a  carpet  stretched 
on  the  pavement,  and  the  actors  played  their 
parts  in  little  booths  erected  between  the 
clock-tower  and  the  Loggietta  of  the  Cam- 
panile,—  the  roars  of  applause  could  be  heard 
away  out  on  the  lagoons.  The  professional 
poets,  too,  would  hand  you  copies  of  their 
latest  productions,  and  button-hole  you  long 
enough  to  have  you  listen  to  a  sample 
stanza. 

"  Lundy  was  beguiled  in  this  way,  and  an 
hour  later  discovered  that  his  tobacco-box, 
containing  a  portrait  of  his  mother,  set  in 
brilliants  —  an  old-fashioned  snuff-box,  per- 
haps —  was  missing.     So,  under  the  advice 

167 


Legacies  of  a  friend,  he  went  to  the  headquarters  of 
^f^'^^       the  city  guard. 

"  '  Where  did  you  lose  it  ? '  said  the  Chief. 
*  Ah  !  the  poet.  Do  not  worry.  In  two 
days  please  come  again.' 

"  When  he  returned,  the  Chief  said  :  — 

"  '  Please  take  some  tobacco.'  It  was  from 
his  own  box ! 

"Then  the  Chief  explained  that  in  addition 
to  being  a  poet,  the  man  was  also  a  member 
of  the  Borsaiuoli  (literally  translated,  '  the 
takers') ,  from  which  our  own  word  '  Bourse  ' 
is  derived. 

"The  same  old  swindlers  still,  only  our 
stock-brokers  do  not  stop  at  our  tobacco- 
boxes,"  added  the  Professor,  laughing. 

"  Then  Lundy  goes  on  to  explain  that 
whatever  these  fellows  succeeded  in  stealing 
they  must  bring  to  the  Chief's  office  within 
three  days.  If  the  article  was  reclaimed 
within  fifteen  days,  the  thief  received  only 
a  small  sum,  and  the  article  was  returned  to 
its  owner.  If  it  was  never  called  for,  then  it 
belonged  to  the  thief.  If  he  was  detected 
in  the  act,  or  failed  to  return  it  to  the  office, 
he  was  punished. 

"  *  But  why  do  you  permit  this  } '  continues 
Lundy,  speaking  to  the  Chief. 

" '  To  encourage  an  ingenious,  intelligentj 
i68 


sagacious  activity  among  the  people^  replied  Le^racies 
the  ofificer,  with  perfect  seriousness.  of  the 

"  See,  I  translate  literally,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor, with  his  finger  on  the  line,  throwing 
back  his  head  in  laughter. 

But  the  day  was  not  over  for  the  Professor. 
We  must  go  to  the  Church  of  the  Frari,  the 
Professor  going  into  raptures  over  the  joyous 
Madonna  and  Saints  by  Bellini,  while  I  had 
a  little  rapture  of  my  own  over  a  live,  kneel- 
ing mother,  illumined  by  a  shaft  of  light 
which  fell  on  her  babe  clasped  to  her  breast, 

—  a  Madonna  of  to-day,  infinitely  more  pre- 
cious and  lovely  than  any  canvas  which  ages 
had  toned  to  a  dull  smokiness.  But  then  the 
Professor  lives  in  the  past,  while  I  have  a 
certain  indefensible  adoration  for  the  present 

—  when  it  comes  to  Madonnas. 

Later  we  idled  along  between  the  columns 
supporting  the  roof,  and  wandered  up  behind 
the  altar,  the  whole  interior  aglow  with  the 
afternoon  sun,  stopping  at  the  monument  of 
the  great  Titian  and  the  tomb  of  Canova. 
To  his  credit  be  it  said,  the  Professor  had  no 
raptures  over  this  outrage  in  marble.  And 
around  all  the  other  stone  sepulchres  of  doge, 
ambassador,  and  noble,  lingering  in  the  open 
door  for  a  last  glance  back  into  its  rich  inte- 
rior—  certainly,  after  San  Marco,  the  most 

169 


Legacies 
of  tJie 
Past 


picturesque  and  harmonious  in  coloring  of  all 
the  churches  in  Venice — until  we  emerged 
into  the  sunlight  and  lost  ourselves  in  the 
throngs  of  people  blocking  up  the  Campo. 
Then  we  turned  the  corner  and  entered  San 
Rocco. 

It  was  \.\\Q,festa  day  of  the  Frari,  and  the 
superb  staircase  of  the  Sciiola  di  San  Rocco, 
lined  with  the  marvellous  colorings  of  Titian 
and  Tintoretto,  was  thronged  with  people  in 
gala  costume,  crowding  up  the  grand  stair- 
case to  the  upper  sala,  the  room  once  used 
as  an  assembly-room  by  the  Brotherhood  of 
the  Order.  I  had  seen  it  often  before,  with- 
out the  Professor,  for  this  was  one  of  my 
many  pilgrimages.  Whenever  you  have  an 
hour  to  spare,  lose  half  your  breath  mount- 
ing this  staircase.  You  will  lose  the  other 
half  when  this  magnificent  council  chamber 
bursts  upon  your  view.  Even  the  first  sight 
of  the  floor  will  produce  that  effect. 

You  have  doubtless,  in  your  youth,  seen  a 
lady's  brooch,  fashionable  then,  made  of 
Florentine  mosaic,  —  a  cunning,  intricate 
joining  of  many-colored  stones,  — or  perhaps 
a  paper-weight  of  similar  intricate  design,  all 
curves  and  scrolls.  Imagine  this  paper-weight, 
with  its  delicacy  of  fitting,  high  polish,  and 
harmony  of  color,  enlarged  to  a  floor  several 
170 


hundred  feet  long,  by  a  proportionate  width,  Legacies 

—  I  have  not    the  exact  dimensions,  and  \\.%    f 

Past 
would  convey  no  better  idea  if  I  had,  —  and 

you  will  get  some  faint  impression  of  the 
quality  and  beauty  of  the  floor  of  this  grand 
sala.  Rising  from  its  polished  surface  and 
running  half  way  up  the  four  walls,  broken 
only  by  the  round  door  you  entered,  with  the 
usual  windows  and  a  corner  chapel,  is  a  wain- 
scoting of  dark  wood  carved  in  alto  relievo,  in 
the  last  century,  by  Marchioni  and  his  pupils. 
Above  this  is  a  procession  of  pictures,  har- 
monizing in  tone  with  the  carvings  and  mo- 
saics, and  over  all  hangs  a  scroll-like  ceiling 
incrusted  with  gold,  its  seven  panels  made 
luminous  by  Tintoretto's  brush. 

These  panels  are  not  his  masterpieces. 
The  side  walls  are  equally  unimportant,  so  far 
as  the  ravings  of  experts  and  art  critics  go. 
Even  the  carvings,  on  close  inspection,  are 
labored,  and  often  grotesque.  But  to  the 
painter's  eye  and  mind  this  single  sala  of  San 
Rocco,  contrasted  with  all  the  other  stately 
banquet  halls  and  council  chambers  of  Eu- 
rope, makes  of  them  but  shelters  to  keep  out 
the  weather. 

Filled  with  peasants  and  gala  people  in 
brilliant  costumes  on  %ov(\q.  festa  day,  when  all 
may  enter,  the  staircase  crowded,  its  spacious 

171 


Legacies  interior  a  mass  of  colored  handkerchief,  shawl, 
^  '^  and  skirt,  all  flooded  with  the  golden  radiance 
of  the  sun,  it  is  one  of  the  rare  sights  of 
Venice.  But  even  empty,  with  only  your  foot- 
fall and  that  of  the  bare-headed  custodian  to 
break  the  profound  stillness,  it  is  still  your 
own  ideal  princely  hall,  —  that  hall  where  the 
most  gallant  knight  of  the  most  entrancing 
romance  of  your  childhood  could  tread  a  mea- 
sure with  the  fairest  ladye  of  the  loftiest, 
cragged-stepped  castle  ;  that  salon  where  the 
greatest  nobles  of  your  teeming  fancy  could 
strut  about  in  ermine  and  cloth  of  gold  ;  where 
the  wonderful  knights  held  high  revel,  with 
goblets  of  crystal  and  flagons  of  ruby  wine, 
and  all  the  potentates  from  the  spice-laden 
isles  could  be  welcomed  with  trumpet  and 
cymbal.  Here  you  are  sure  Desdemona 
might  have  danced,  and  Katharine  ;  and 
here  Cornaro,  Queen  of  Cyprus,  received  the 
ambassadors  of  her  promised  kingdom.  As 
you  stand  breathless,  drinking  in  its  propor- 
tions, you  feel  that  it  is  a  sala  for  pomps 
and  ceremonies,  not  for  monkish  rites  ;  a 
sala  for  wedding  breakfasts  and  gay  routs 
and  frolicsome  masquerades  and  bright  laugh- 
ter, rather  than  for  whispered  conferences  in 
cowl  and  frock.  Even  its  polished  floor  re- 
calls more  readily  the  whirl  of  flying  slippers 
172 


than  the  slow,  measured  tread  of  sa.nd3.\\ed  Legacies 

feet.  ''f^i^ 

rast 
The  Professor  himself,  I  regret  to  say,  was 

not  wildly  enthusiastic  over  this  interior.     In 

fact  he   made   no   remark  whatever,  except 

that  the  floor  was  too  slippery  to  walk  upon, 

and  looked  too  new  to  him.     This    showed 

the  keynote  of  his  mind  :  the  floor  was  laid 

within  a  century  of  the  preceding  generation. 

Nothing   less   than   two   centuries  old   ever 

interests  the  Professor  ! 

However,  despite  his  peculiarities,  it  is 
delightful  to  go  about  with  the  old  fellow, 
listening  to  his  legends.  Almost  every  pal- 
ace and  bridge  stirs  into  life  some  memory 
of  the  past. 

''Here,"  he  says,  "was  where  the  great 
Doge  Foscari  lived,  and  from  that  very  bal- 
cony were  hung  his  colors  the  day  of  his 
abdication,  —  the  colors  that  four  hours  later 
were  draped  in  black  at  his  tragic  death.  On 
that  identical  doorstep  landed  the  ex-Queen 
of  Cyprus  on  the  eventful  morning  when  she 
returned  to  Venice  an  exile  in  her  own  land." 
And  did  I  know  that  on  this  very  bridge  — 
the  Ponte  dei  Pugjii,  the  bridge  of  the  fisti- 
cuffs —  many  of  the  fights  took  place  be- 
tween the  two  factions  of  the  gondoliers,  the 
Nicolletti  and  the   Castellani .?     If  I  would 

173 


Past 


Legacies  leave  the  gondola  for  a  moment  he  would 
%j,^f  show  me  the  four  impressions  of  the  human 
foot  set  into  the  marble  of  the  two  upper 
steps,  two  on  each  side.  Here  each  faction 
would  place  its  two  best  men,  their  right  feet 
covering  the  stone  outline  ;  then  at  a  given 
signal  the  rush  began.  For  days  these  fights 
would  go  on  and  the  canal  be  piled  up  with 
those  thrown  over  the  railless  bridge.  Soon 
the  whole  neighborhood  would  take  sides, 
fighting  on  every  street  and  every  corner; 
and  once,  so  great  was  the  slaughter,  the 
tumult  could  only  be  quelled  by  the  Arch- 
bishop bringing  out  the  Host  from  the 
Church  of  Santa  Barn  aba,  not  far  off,  thus 
compelling  the  people  to  kneel. 

When  the  day  was  over  and  we  were  float- 
ing through  the  little  canal  of  San  Trovaso, 
passing  the  great  Palazzo  Contarini,  brilliant 
in  the  summer  sunset,  the  Professor  stopped 
the  gondola  and  bade  me  good-by,  with  this 
parting  comment :  — 

"It  was  either  in  this  palace,  in  that  room 
you  see  half  way  up  the  wall,  where  the 
pointed  Gothic  windows  look  out  into  the 
garden,  or  perhaps  in  one  of  the  palaces  of 
the  Procuratie,  I  forget  which,  that  the  King 
of  Denmark,  during  the  great ///^j"  attendant 
upon  his  visit  in  1708,  trod  a  measure  with  a 
174 


certain  noble  dame  of  marvelous  beauty,  one  Legacies 
Catarlna  Quirini,  the  wife  of  a  distinguished  ^^^^ 
Venetian.  As  he  wheeled  in  the  dance  his 
buckle  tore  a  string  of  priceless  pearls  from 
her  dress.  Before  the  King  could  stoop  to 
hand  them  to  his  fair  partner,  her  husband 
sprang  forward  and  crushed  them  with  his 
foot,  remarking,  'The  King  never  kneels.' 
Charming,  was  it  not  .■'  " 

"  What  do  you  think  it  cost  his  Highness 
the  next  day,  Professor  ? "  I  asked. 

"  I  never  heard,"  he  replied,  with  a  shrug 
of  his  shoulders  ;  "  but  what  did  it  matter } 
what  are  kings  for  .■*  " 

"  Good-night !  " 

175 


LIFE    IN   THE   STREETS 

(HE  gondola,  like  all  other  cabs, 
land  or  water,  whether  hansom, 
four-wheeler,  sampan,  or  caique, 
is  a  luxury  used  only  by  the 
hurried  and  the  rich.  As  no 
Venetian  is  ever  hurried,  and  few  are  rich, — 
very  many  of  them  living  in  complete  igno- 
rance of  the  exact  whereabouts  of  their  next 
repast,  —  almost  everybody  walks. 

And  the  walking,  strange  to  say,  in  this 
city  anchored  miles  out  at  sea,  with  nearly 
every  street  paved  with  ripples,  is  particu- 
larly good.  Of  course,  one  must  know  the 
way,  —  the  way  out  of  the  broad  Campo, 
down  the  narrow  slit  of  a  street  between  tall 
houses  ;  the  way  over  the  slender  bridges, 
along  stone  foot-walks,  hardly  a  yard  wide, 
bracketed  to  some  palace  wall  overhanging 
the  water,  or  the  way  down  a  flight  of  steps 
dipping  into  a  doorway  and  so  under  and 
through  a  greater  house  held  up  by  stone 
columns,  and  on  into  the  open  again. 

But  when  you  do  know  all  these  twists  and 
turns  and  crookednesses,  you  are  surprised 
to  find  that  you  can  walk  all  over  Venice  and 
176 


never  wet  the  sole  of  your  shoe,  nor  even  soil  Life 
it,  for  that  matter.  ^":J^^\ 

il)  'PPT  C 

If  you  stand  on  the  Iron  Bridge  spanning 
the  Grand  Canal,  — the  only  dry-shod  con- 
nection between  the  new  part  of  Venice 
which  lies  along  the  Zattere,  and  the  old 
section  about  San  Marco  and  the  Piazza,  — 
you  will  find  it  crowded  all  day  with  hun- 
dreds of  pedestrians  passing  to  and  fro.  Some 
of  them  have  come  from  away  down  near  the 
Arsenal,  walked  the  whole  length  of  the 
Riva,  rounded  the  Campanile,  crossed  the 
Piazza,  and  then  twisted  themselves  through 
a  tangle  of  these  same  little  byways  and 
about  church  corners  and  down  dark  cellars, 
—  sotto  porticos,  the  street  labels  call  them, — 
until  they  have  reached  the  Campo  of  San 
Stefano  and  the  Iron  Bridge.  And  it  is  so, 
too,  at  the  Rialto,  the  only  other  bridge,  but 
one,  crossing  the  Grand  Canal,  except  that 
the  stream  of  idlers  has  here  a  different  cur- 
rent and  poorer  clothes  are  seen.  Many  of 
these  streets  are  wide  enough  for  a  company 
of  soldiers  to  walk  abreast,  and  many  are  so 
narrow  that  when  two  fruit  venders  pass 
with  their  baskets,  one  of  them  steps  into  a 
doorway. 

And  the  people  one  meets  in  these  twists 
and  turns,  —  the  people  who  live  in  the  big 

177 


Life  and  little  streets,  —  who  eat,  sleep,  and  are 
tn  the  merry,  and  who,  in  the  warm  summer  days 
and  nights,  seem  to  have  no  other  homes  ! 
My  dear  friend  Luigi  is  one  of  these  vagrant 
Bohemians,  and  so  is  Vittorio,  and  little 
Appo,  with  shoulders  like  a  stone  Hercules 
and  quite  as  hard,  and  so,  also,  are  Antonio 
and  the  rest.  When  Luigi  wants  his  break- 
fast he  eats  it  from  a  scrap  of  paper  held  on 
the  palm  of  his  hand,  upon  which  is  puddled 
and  heaped  a  little  mound  of  thick  soup  or 
brown  ragout  made  of  fulpe,  or  perhaps 
shreds  of  fish.  He  will  eat  this  as  he  walks, 
stopping  to  talk  to  every  fellow-tramp  he 
meets,  each  one  of  whom  dips  in  his  thumb 
and  forefinger  with  a  pinch-of-snuff  move- 
ment quite  in  keeping  with  the  ancient  cus- 
tom and  equally  as  courteous.  Every  other 
poverty-stricken  cavaliere  of  the  Riva,  as 
soon  as  he  has  loaded  down  his  own  palm 
with  a  similar  greasy  mess  from  the  earthen 
dish  simmering  over  a  charcoal  fire,  —  the 
open-air  caffe  of  the  poor,  —  expects  that  the 
next  friend  passing  will  do  the  same.  When 
night  comes  they  each  select  some  particu- 
larly soft  slab  of  marble  on  one  of  the  seats 
in  the  shadow  of  the  Campanile,  or  some 
bricked  recess  behind  San  Marco,  stuff  their 
hats  under  their  cheeks,  and  drop  into  obliv- 
178 


ion,  only  waking  to  life  when  the  sun  touches  Life 
the  gilded  angel  of  San  Giorgio.  And  not  ^^^^^^^^ 
only  Luigi  and  his  fellow-tramps,  —  delightful 
fellows  every  one  of  them,  and  dear  particular 
friends  of  mine,  —  but  hundreds  of  others 
of  every  class  and  condition  of  royal,  irre- 
deemable, irresponsible,  never-ending  pov- 
erty. 

And  as  to  making  merry  !  You  should  sit 
down  somewhere  and  watch  these  million- 
naires  of  leisure  kill  the  lazy,  dreamy,  happy- 
go-lucky  hours  with  a  volley  of  chaff  hurled 
at  some  stroller,  some  novice  from  the  coun- 
try back  of  Mestre  in  for  a  day's  holiday ;  or 
with  a  combined,  good-natured  taunt  at  a 
peasant  from  the  fruit  gardens  of  Mala- 
mocco,  gaping  at  the  wonders  of  the  Piazza; 
or  in  heated  argument  each  with  the  other — ■ 
argument  only  ending  in  cigarettes  and  vino. 
Or  listen  to  their  songs  —  songs  started  per- 
haps by  some  one  roused  out  of  a  sound 
sleep,  who  stretches  himself  into  shape  with 
a  burst  of  melody  that  runs  like  fire  in  tan- 
gled grass,  until  the  whole  Campo  is  ablaze : 
//  Trovatore,  and  snatches  from  Marta  and 
Puriiani,  or  some  fisherman's  chorus  that 
the  lagoons  have  listened  to  for  centuries. 
You  never  hear  any  new  songs.  All  the 
operas  of  the  outside  world,  German,  French, 

179 


Life         and  English,  might  be  sung  and  played  under 
^9/     /       their  noses  and  into  their  ears  for  a  lifetime, 
and  they  would  have  none  of  them. 

Then  the  street  venders !  The  man  who 
stops  at  some  water-steps  to  wash  and  ar- 
range on  a  flat  basket  the  handful  of  little 
silver  fish,  which  he  sells  for  a  copper  coin 
no  larger  than  one  of  their  fins.  And  the 
candy  man  with  teetering  scales ;  and  the 
girl  selling  the  bright  red  handkerchiefs,  blue 
suspenders,  gorgeous  neckties,  and  pearl  but- 
tons strung  on  white  cards. 

And,  too,  the  grave,  dignified,  utterly  use- 
less, and  highly  ornamental  gendarmes,  al- 
ways in  pairs,  —  never  stopping  a  moment, 
and  always  with  the  same  mournful  strut,  — 
like  dual  clog-dancers  stepping  in  unison.  In 
many  years'  experience  of  Venetian  life,  I 
have  never  yet  seen  one  of  these  silver-laced, 
cockaded,  red-striped-pantalooned  guardians 
of  the  peace  lay  his  hand  upon  any  mortal 
soul.  Never,  even  at  night,  when  the  ragged 
wharf-rats  from  the  shipyards  prowl  about 
the  Piazza,  sneaking  under  the  tables,  poun- 
cing upon  the  burnt  ends  of  cigarettes  and 
cigars,  and  all  in  sight  of  these  pillars  of  the 
state  —  never,  with  all  these  opportunities, 
even  when  in  their  eagerness  these  ragamuf- 
fins crawl  almost  between  their  legs. 
i8o 


Yes,  once !     Then  I  took  a  hand  myself,  Life 

and  against  the  written  law  of  Venice  \.qq.^":,, 

o  tyeets 
It  was  at  Florian's,  on  the  very  edge  of  the 

sea  of  tables,   quite  out  to  the  promenade 

line.     I  was  enjoying  a  glass  of  Hofbrau,  the 

stars  overhead,  the  music  of  the  King's  band 

filling  the  soft  summer  night.     Suddenly  a 

bust  of  Don  Quixote,  about  the  size  of  my 

beer-mug,  was  laid  on  the  table  before  me, 

and  a  pair  of  black  eyes  from  under  a  Spanish 

boina  peered  into  my  own. 

"  Cinque  lire,  S ignore.'' 

It  was  Alessandro,  the  boy  sculptor. 

I  had  met  him  the  day  before,  in  front  of 
Salviati's.  He  was  carrying  into  the  great 
glass-maker's  shop,  for  shipment  over  the 
sea,  a  bust  made  of  wet  clay.  A  hurried 
sojourner,  a  foreigner,  of  course,  by  an  awk- 
ward turn  of  his  heel  had  upset  the  little 
sculptor,  bust  and  all,  pasting  the  aristocratic 
features  of  Don  Quixote  to  the  sidewalk  in 
a  way  that  made  that  work  of  art  resemble 
more  the  droppings  from  a  mortar-hod  than 
the  counterfeit  presentment  of  Cervantes' 
hero.  Instantly  a  crowd  gathered,  and  a 
commiserating  one.  When  I  drew  near 
enough  to  see  into  the  face  of  the  boy,  it 
was  wreathed  in  a  broad  smile.  He  was 
squatting  fiat  on  the  stone  flagging,  hard  at 

i8i 


Streets 


Life  work  on  the  damaged  bust,  assuring  the  of- 
i^nthe  fending  signore  all  the  while  that  it  was 
sheer  nonsense  to  make  such  profuse  apolo- 
gies —  it  would  be  all  right  in  a  few  minutes  ; 
and  while  I  looked  on,  in  all  less  than  ten 
minutes,  the  deft  fingers  of  the  little  fellow 
had  readjusted  with  marvellous  dexterity  the 
crumpled  mass,  straightening  the  neck,  re- 
building the  face,  and  restoring  the  haughty 
dignity  of  the  noble  don.  Then  he  picked 
himself  up,  and  with  a  bow  and  a  laugh  went 
on  his  way  rejoicing.  A  boy  of  any  other 
nationality,  by  the  bye,  would  have  filled  the 
air  with  his  cries  until  a  policeman  had 
taught  him  manners,  or  a  hat  lined  with  pen- 
nies had  healed  his  sorrows. 

So  when  Alessandro  looked  up  into  my 
face  I  felt  more  like  sharing  my  table  with 
him  than  driving  him  away — even  to  the 
ordering  of  another  beer  and  a  chair.  Was 
he  not  a  brother  artist,  and  though  poor  and 
with  a  very  slender  hold  on  fame  and  fortune, 
had  art  any  dividing  lines  .'' 

Not  so  the  gentlemen  with  the  cocked 
hats  !  What  !  Peddling  without  the  King's 
license,  or  with  it,  for  that  matter,  at  Flo- 
rian's,  within  sound  of  the  King's  band,  the 
eyes  of  all  Venice  upon  them  !  Never  !  So 
they  made  a  grab  for  Alessandro,  who  turned 


his  innocent  young  face  up  into  theirs,  —  he  Life 

in  th, 
Streets 


was  only  two  days  from  Milan  and  unused  to  "' 


their  ways,  —  and,  finding  that  they  were 
really  in  earnest,  clung  to  me  like  a  fright- 
ened kitten. 

It,  of  course,  became  instantly  a  matter  of 
professional  pride  with  me.  Allow  a  sculp- 
tor of  renown  and  parts,  not  to  say  genius, 
to  be  dragged  off  to  prison  under  the  pretence 
that  he  was  breaking  the  law  by  selling  his 
wares,  when  really  he  was  only  exhibiting  to 
a  brother  artist  an  evidence  of  his  handiwork, 
etc.,  etc.  !  It  was  a  narrow  escape,  and  I  am 
afraid  the  bystanders,  as  well  as  the  frozen 
images  of  the  law,  lost  all  respect  for  my 
truthfulness, — but  it  sufficed. 

On  my  way  home  that  night  this  waif  of 
the  streets  told  me  that  since  he  had  been 
ten  years  old  —  he  was  then  only  seventeen 
—  he  had  troubadoured  it  through  Europe, 
even  as  far  as  Spain,  his  only  support  being 
his  spatula  and  a  lump  of  clay.  With  these 
he  could  conjure  a  breakfast  out  of  the  head 
waiter  of  a  caffe  in  exchange  for  his  portrait 
in  clay,  or  a  lodging  in  some  cheap  hotel  for 
a  like  payment  to  the  proprietor.  He  is  still 
tramping  the  streets  of  Venice,  his  little 
wooden  board  filled  with  Madonnas,  Spanish 
matadors,  and  Don  Quixotes.     Now  he  has 

183 


Life  money  in  the  bank  and  the  striped-panta- 
tti  the       looned  guardians  of  the  peace  let  him  alone. 

And  the  girls  ! 

Not  the  better  class,  with  mothers  and 
duennas  dogging  every  footstep,  but  the  girls 
who  wander  two  and  two  up  and  down  the 
Riva,  their  arms  intertwined  ;  not  forgetting 
the  bright-eyed  signorina  that  I  once  waylaid 
in  a  by-street.  (Don't  start !  Espero  helped.) 
I  wanted  a  figure  to  lean  over  a  crumbling 
wall  in  a  half-finished  sketch,  and  sent  Es- 
pero to  catch  one.  Such  a  vision  of  beauty  ! 
Such  a  wealth  of  purple  —  grape  purple  — 
black  hair  ;  such  luminous  black  eyes,  real 
gazelle's,  soft  and  velvety ;  so  exquisitely 
graceful ;  so  charming  and  naive ;  so  un- 
kempt, —  so  ragged,  —  so  entirely  unlaun- 
dered,  unscrubbed,  and  slovenly  ! 

But  you  must  look  twice  at  a  Venetian 
beauty.  You  may  miss  her  good  points 
otherwise.  You  think  at  first  sight  that  she 
is  only  the  last  half  of  my  description,  until 
you  follow  the  flowing  lines  under  the  cheap, 
shabby  shawl  and  skirt,  and  study  the  face. 

This  one  opened  her  big  eyes  wide  in  as- 
tonishment at  Espero,  listened  attentively, 
consented  gracefully,  and  then  sprang  after 
him  into  the  gondola,  which  carried  her  off 
bodily  to  my  sketching  ground.     Truly  one 


touch  of  the  brush,  with  a  paper  /z>«  neatly  Z//*^ 
folded  around  the  handle,  is  very  apt  to  make^'  ^^ 
all  Venice,  especially  stray  amateur  models, 
your  kin. 

But  this  is  true  of  all  the  people  in  the 
streets.  Every  Venetian,  for  that  matter, 
is  a  born  model.  You  can  call  from  under 
your  umbrella  to  any  passer-by,  anybody  who 
is  not  on  a  quick  run  for  the  doctor,  and 
he  or  she  will  stand  stock  still  and  fix  him- 
self or  herself  in  any  position  you  may  wish, 
and  stay  fixed  by  the  hour. 

And  the  gossip  that  goes  on  all  day  !  In 
the  morning  hours  around  the  wells  in  the 
open  Campo,  where  the  women  fill  their  cop- 
per water-buckets,  and  the  children  play  by 
the  widening  puddles  ;  in  the  narrow  streets 
beside  a  shadow-flecked  wall ;  under  the  vines 
of  the  traghetto,  lolling  over  the  unused/>A-// 
among  the  gondoliers  at  the  gondola  landings, 
while  their  boats  lie  waiting  for  patrons  ;  over 
low  walls  of  narrow  slits  of  canals,  to  occu- 
pants of  some  window  or  bridge  a  hundred 
feet  away.  There  is  always  time  to  talk,  in 
Venice. 

Then  the  dolce  far  nieiite  air  that  pervades 
these  streets  !  Nobody  in  a  hurry.  Nobody 
breaking  his  neck  to  catch  a  boat  off  for 
the  Lido ;  there  will  be  another  in  an  hour, 

i8s 


Streets 


Life         and  if,  by  any  combination  of  cool  awnings, 
"^-fff/c     warm  wine,  and  another  idler  for  company, 
this  later  boat  should  get  away  without  this 
one    passenger,    why    worry?  —  to-morrow 
will  do. 

All  over  Venice  it  is  the  same.  The  men 
sit  in  rows  on  the  stone  benches.  The  girls 
idle  in  the  doorways,  their  hands  in  their  laps. 
The  members  of  the  open-air  club  lounge 
over  the  bridges  or  lie  sprawled  on  the 
shadow-side  of  the  steps.  Up  in  the  fishing 
quarter,  between  naps  in  his  doorway,  some 
weather-beaten  old  salt  may,  perhaps,  have  a 
sudden  spasm  of  energy  over  a  crab-basket 
that  must  be  hoisted  up,  or  lowered  down,  or 
scrubbed  with  a  broom.  But  there  is  sure 
to  be  a  lull  in  his  energy,  and  before  you 
fairly  miss  his  toiling  figure  he  is  asleep  in 
his  boat.  When  his  signora  wakes  him  into 
life  again  with  a  piece  of  toasted  pumpkin, — 
his  luncheon,  like  the  Professor's,  is  eaten 
wherever  he  happens  to  be,  —  he  may  have 
another  spasm  of  activity,  but  the  chances 
are  that  he  will  relapse  into  oblivion  again. 

Even  about  the  Piazza,  the  centre  of  the 
city's  life,  every  free  seat  that  is  shady  is 
occupied.  So,  too,  are  the  bases  of  the  flag- 
poles in  front  of  the  Loggietta  and  behind 
the  Campanile.  Only  when  something  out 
1 86 


NARROW    SLITS    OF    CANALS 


of  the  common  moves  into  the  open  space  —  Life 
like  the  painter  with  the  canvas  ten  feet  long  J^^/^'j^j 
and  six  feet  high  —  do  these  habituh  leave 
their  seats  or  forsake  the  shelter  of  the  ar- 
cades and  stand  in  solemn  circle.  This  par- 
ticular painter  occupies  the  centre  of  a  square 
bounded  by  four  chairs  and  some  yards  of 
connecting  white  ribbon,  —  the  chairs  turned 
in  so  that  nobody  can  sit  on  them.  He  has 
been  here  for  many  seasons.  He  comes 
every  afternoon  at  five  and  paints  for  an 
hour.  The  crowds,  too,  come  every  day,  — 
the  same  people,  I  think.  Yet  he  is  not  the 
only  painter  in  the  streets.  You  will  find 
them  all  over  Venice.  Some  under  their 
umbrellas,  the  more  knowing  under  short 
gondola-sails  rigged  like  an  awning,  under 
which  they  crawl  out  of  the  blazing  heat.  I 
am  one  of  the  more  knowing. 

The  average  citizen,  as  I  have  said,  almost 
always  walks.  When  there  are  no  bridges 
across  the  Grand  Canal  he  must  of  course 
rely  on  the  gondola.  Not  the  luxurious  gon- 
dola with  curtains  and  silk-fringed  cushions, 
but  a  gondola  half  worn-out  and  now  used  as 
a  ferryboat  at  the  traghetto.  These  shuttles 
of  travel  run  back  and  forth  all  day  and  all 
night  (there  are  over  thirty  tragJietti  in  Ven- 
ice), the  fare  being  some  infinitesimally  small 

187 


Streets 


Life  bit  of  copper.  Once  across,  the  Venetian 
^"/Jltf^  goes  on  about  his  way,  dry-shod  again.  For 
longer  distances,  say  from  the  railroad  sta- 
tion to  the  Piazza,  the  Public  Garden,  or  the 
Lido,  he  boards  one  of  the  little  steamers 
that  scurry  up  and  down  the  Grand  Canal  or 
the  Giudecca  and  the  waters  of  some  of  the 
lagoons  —  really  the  only  energetic  things 
in  Venice,  Then  another  bit  of  copper  coin, 
this  time  the  size  of  a  cuff -button,  and  he  is 
whirled  away  and  landed  at  the  end  of  a  dock 
lined  with  more  seats  for  the  weary,  and 
every  shaded  space  full. 

Another  feature  of  these  streets  is  the 
bric-d-brac  dealer.  He  has  many  of  the  char- 
acteristics of  his  equally  shrewd  brethren 
along  Cheapside  and  the  Bowery.  One  in 
particular,  —  he  is  always  on  the  sidewalk  in 
front  of  his  shop.  The  Professor  insists 
that  these  men  are  the  curse  of  Venice  ;  that 
they  rob  poor  and  rich  alike,  —  the  poor  of 
their  heirlooms  at  one-tenth  their  value,  the 
rich  of  their  gold  by  reselling  this  booty  at 
twenty  times  its  worth.  I  never  take  the 
Professor  seriously  about  these  things.  His 
own  personal  patronage  must  be  very  limited, 
and  I  suspect,  too,  that  in  the  earlier  years 
of  his  exile,  some  of  his  own  belongings  — 
an  old   clock,   perhaps,   or   a  pair  of  paste 


buckles,  or  some  other  relic  of  better  days  —  Life 
were  saved  from  the  pawnshop  only  to  be^^^^  "^ 
swallowed  up  by  some  shark  down  a  back 
street. 

But  there  is  one  particular  Ananias,  a 
smug,  persuasive,  clean-shaven  specimen  of 
his  craft,  who  really  answers  to  the  Profes- 
sor's epithet.  He  haunts  a  narrow  crack  of 
a  street  leading  from  the  Campo  San  Moise 
to  the  Piazza.  This  crevice  of  a  lane  is  the 
main  thoroughfare  between  the  two  great 
sections  of  Venice.  Not  only  the  Venetians 
themselves,  but,  as  it  is  the  short  cut  to 
San  Marco,  many  of  the  strangers  from  the 
larger  hotels  —  the  Britannia,  the  Grand,  the 
Bauer-Grijnwald,  and  others — pass  through 
it  night  and  day. 

Here  this  wily  spider  weaves  his  web  for 
foreign  flies,  retreating  with  his  victim  into 
his  hole  —  a  little  shop,  dark  as  a  pocket  — 
whenever  he  has  his  fangs  completely  fas- 
tened upon  the  fly's  wallet.  The  bait  is, 
perhaps,  a  church  lamp,  or  an  altar-cloth 
spotted  with  candle-grease.  There  are  three 
metres  in  the  cloth,  with  six  spots  of  grease 
to  the  metre.  You  are  a  stranger  and  do 
not  know  that  the  silk  factory  at  the  corner 
furnished  the  cloth  the  week  before  for  five 
francs  a  metre,  Ananias  the  grease,  and  his 

189 


Streets 


Life  wife  the  needle  that  sewed  it  together.  Now 
'^/^^,      hear  him! 

"  No,  nod  modern ;  seexteenth  century. 
Vrom  a  vary  olt  church  in  Padua.  Zat  von 
you  saw  on  ze  Beazzi  yesterday  vas  modern 
and  vary  often,  but  I  assure  you,  shentle- 
man,  zat  zees  ees  antique  and  more  seldom. 
Ant  for  dree  hundredt  francs  eet  ees  re-dik- 
lous.  I  bay  myselluf  dree  hundredt  an'  feefty 
francs,  only  ze  beesiness  is  so  bad,  and  eet 
ees  de  first  dime  zat  I  speak  wis  you,  I 
vould  not  sell  eet  for  fife  hundredt." 

You  begin  by  offering  him  fifty  francs, 

"  Two  Jinndredt  and  feefty  francs  !"  he  an- 
swers, without  a  muscle  in  his  face  changing ; 
"no,  shentleman,  it  vould  be  eemposseeble 
to  —  " 

"  No,  fifty,"  you  cry  out. 

Now  see  the  look  of  wounded  pride  that 
overspreads  his  face,  the  dazed,  almost 
stunned  expression,  followed  by  a  slight 
touch  of  indignation.  "  Shentleman,  con- 
seeder  ze  honor  of  my  house.  Eef  I  sharge 
you  dree  hundredt  francs  for  sometings  only 
for  feefty,  it  ees  for  myselluf  I  am  zorry, 
Eet  ees  not  posseeble  zat  you  know  ze  hon- 
orable standing  of  my  house," 

Then,  if  you  are  wise,  you  throw  down 
your  card  with  the  name  of  your  hotel  —  and 
190 


stroll  up  the  street,  gazing  into  the  shop  win-  Life 

in  th. 
Streets 


dows  and  pricing  in  a  careless  way  every  other  "^  ^^ 


thing  suspended  outside  any  other  door,  or 
puckered  up  inside  any  other  window. 

In  ten  minutes  after  you  have  turned  the 
corner  he  has  interviewed  the  porter  of  your 
hotel  —  not  Joseph  of  the  Britannia  ;  Joseph 
never  lets  one  of  this  kind  mount  the  hotel 
steps  unless  his  ticket  is  punched  with  your 
permission.  In  five  minutes  Ananias  has 
learned  the  very  hour  of  the  day  you  have  to 
leave  Venice,  and  is  thereafter  familiar  with 
every  bundle  of  stuffs  offered  by  any  other 
dealer  that  is  sent  to  your  apartment.  When 
you  pass  his  shop  the  next  day  he  bows  with 
dignity,  but  never  leaves  his  doorway.  If  you 
have  the  moral  courage  to  ignore  him,  even 
up  to  the  last  morning  of  your  departure, 
when  your  trunks  are  packed  and  under  the 
porter's  charge  for  registering,  you  will  meet 
Ananias  in  the  corridor  with  the  altar-cloth 
under  his  arm,  and  his  bill  for  fifty  francs  in 
his  pocket.  If  not,  and  you  really  want  his 
stuffs  and  he  finds  it  out,  then  cable  for  a 
new  letter  of  credit. 

At  night,  especially  festa  nights,  these 
Venetian  streets  are  even  more  unique  than 
in  the  day.  There  is,  perhaps,  2i  festa  at  the 
Frari,  or  at  Santa  Maria  del  Zobenigo.     The 

191 


Life  Campo  in  front  of  the  church  is  ablaze  with 
^s/  t»  strings  of  lanterns  hung  over  the  heads  of  the 
people,  or  fastened  to  long  brackets  reaching 
out  from  the  windows.  There  are  clusters 
of  candles,  too,  socketed  in  triangles  of  wood, 
and  flaring  torches,  fastened  to  a  mushroom 
growth  of  booths  that  have  sprung  up  since 
morning,  where  are  sold  hot  waffles  cooked 
on  open-air  griddles,  and  ladles  full  of  soup 
filled  with  sea  horrors,  —  spider-like  things 
with  crawly  legs.  Each  booth  is  decorated 
with  huge  brass  plaques,  rcpoiissM  in  designs 
of  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  and  of  the  Saint 
himself.  The  cook  tells  you  that  he  helped 
hammer  them  into  shape  during  the  long 
nights  of  the  preceding  winter  ;  that  there  is 
nothing  so  beautiful,  and  that  for  a  few  lire 
you  can  add  these  specimens  of  domestic 
bric-a-brac  to  your  collection  at  home.  He 
is  right ;  hung  against  a  bit  of  old  tapestry, 
nothing  is  more  decorative  than  one  of  these 
rude  reproductions  of  the  older  Venetian 
brass.  And  nothing  more  honest.  Every  in- 
dentation shows  the  touch  of  the  artist's  ham- 
mer. 

In  honor  of  the  fcsta   everybody  in   the 

vicinity  lends  a  hand  to  the  decorations.     On 

the  walls  of  the    houses  fronting  the   small 

square,  especially  on   the  wall   of  the  wine 

192 


shop,  are  often  hung  the  family  portraits  oiLife 
some  neighbor  who  has  pubhc  spirit  enough  "^  ^^^'^ 
to  add  a  touch  of  color  to  the  general  enjoy- 
ment. My  friend,  Pasquale  D'  Este,  who  is 
gastaldo  at  the  tragJietto  of  Zobenigo,  pointed 
out  to  me,  on  one  of  these  nights,  a  portrait 
of  his  own  ancestor,  surprising  me  with  the 
information  that  his  predecessors  had  been 
gondoliers  for  two  hundred  years. 

While  \kiQ.festa  lasts  the  people  surge  back 
and  forth,  crowding  about  the  booths,  buy- 
ing knick-knacks  at  the  portable  shops.  All 
are  good-natured  and  courteous,  and  each  one 
delighted  over  a  spectacle  so  simple  and  so 
crude,  the  wonder  is,  when  one  thinks  how 
often  2ifesta  occurs  in  Venice,  that  even  a 
handful  of  people  can  be  gathered  together 
to  enjoy  it. 

Besides  all  these  varying  phases  of  street 
merry-making,  there  are  always  to  be  found  in 
the  thoroughfares  of  Venice  during  the  year, 
some  outward  indications  that  mark  impor- 
tant days  in  the  almanac  —  calendar  days  that 
neither  celebrate  historical  events  nor  mark 
religious  festivals.  You  always  know,  for 
instance,  when  St.  Mark's  day  comes,  in 
April,  as  every  girl  you  meet  wears  a  rose 
tucked  in  her  hair  out  of  deference  to  the  an- 
cient custom,  not  as  a  sign  of  the  religious 

193 


Life         character  of  the  day,  but  to  show  to  the  pas- 

^^J  ,       ser-bv   that    she    has  a  sweetheart.      Before 
iitreets  •' 

Christmas,  too,  if  in  the  absence  of  holly 
berries  and  greens  you  should  have  forgotten 
the  calendar  day,  the  peddler  of  eels  and  of 
nut  candy  and  apple  sauce  would  remind  you 
of  it ;  for,  in  accordance  with  the  ancient  cus- 
tom, dating  back  to  the  Republic,  every  family 
in  Venice,  rich  or  poor,  the  night  before 
Christmas,  has  the  same  supper,  —  eels,  a  nut 
candy  called  onandorlato,  and  a  dish  of  apple 
sauce  with  fruits  and  mustard.  This  is  why 
the  peddlers  in  Venice  are  calling  out  all  day 
at  the  top  of  their  lungs,  "  Mandorlato  !  Mos- 
tardaT'  while  the  eel  and  mustard  trade 
springs  into  an  activity  unknown  for  a  year. 
On  other  saints'  days  the  street  peddlers  sell 
a  red  paste  made  of  tomatoes  and  chestnut 
flour,  moulded  into  cakes. 

Last  are  the  caffes  !  In  winter,  of  course, 
the  habitues  of  these  Venetian  lounging  places 
are  crowded  into  small,  stuffy  rooms  ;  but  in 
the  warmer  months  everybody  is  in  the  street. 
Not  only  do  Florian's  and  the  more  impor- 
tant caffes  of  the  rich  spread  their  cloths 
under  the  open  sky,  but  every  other  caffe  on 
the  Riva,  —  the  Oriental,  the  Vcneta  Marina, 
and  the  rest  —  push  their  tables  quite  out  to 
the  danger-line  patrolled  by  the  two  cocked- 
194 


hat  guardians  of  the  peace.     In  and  out  h^-Life 

tween  these  checkerboards  of  srood  cheer,  the"^,^^^ 

°  .  Streets 

peddlers  of  sweets,  candies,  and  fruit  strung 

on  broom-straws,  ply  their  trade,  while  the 
flower  girls  pin  tuberoses  or  a  bunch  of  car- 
nations to  your  coat,  and  the  ever-present  and 
persistent  guide  waylays  customers  for  the 
next  day's  sightseeing.  Once  or  twice  a 
week  there  is  also  a  band  playing  in  front  of 
one  of  these  principal  caffes,  either  the  Gov- 
ernment band  or  some  private  orchestra. 

On  these  nights  the  people  come  in  from 
all  over  Venice,  standing  in  a  solid  mass,  men, 
women,  and  children,  listening  in  perfect 
silence  to  the  strains  of  music  that  float  over 
the  otherwise  silent  street.  There  is  nothing 
in  Europe  quite  like  this  bareheaded,  atten- 
tive, absorbed  crowd  of  Venetians,  enjoying 
every  note  that  falls  on  their  ears.  There  is 
no  gathering  so  silent,  so  orderly,  so  well- 
bred.  The  jewelled  occupants  of  many  an 
opera  box  could  take  lessons  in  good  manners 
from  these  denizens  of  the  tenements,  — 
fishermen,  bead  stringers,  lace  makers  —  who 
gather  here  from  behind  the  Ship  Yard  and 
in  the  tangle  of  streets  below  Sa7i  Giorgio 
delta  Schiavoni.  There  is  no  jostling  or 
pushing,  with  each  one  trying  to  get  a  better 
place.     Many  of  the  women  carry  their  babies, 

195 


Life         the  men  caring  for  the  larger  children.     All 

in  the       jjj-g  judges  of  good  music,  and  all  are  willing 

to  stand  perfectly  still  by  the  hour,  so  that 

they  themselves  may  hear  and  let  others  hear 

too. 

196 


NIGHT   IN   VENICE 

IGHT  in  Venice!  A  night  of 
silver  moons,  —  one  hung 
against  the  velvet  blue  of  the  in- 
finite, fathomless  sky,  the  other 
at  rest  in  the  still  sea  below. 
A  night  of  ghostly  gondolas,  chasing  specks 
of  stars  in  dim  canals ;  of  soft  melodies 
broken  by  softer  laughter ;  of  tinkling  man- 
dolins, white  shoulders,  and  tell-tale  cigar- 
ettes. A  night  of  gay  lanterns  lighting  big 
barges,  filled  with  singers  and  beset  by 
shadowy  boats,  circling  like  moths  or  massed 
like  water-beetles.  A  night  when  San  Gior- 
gio stands  on  tip-toe.  Narcissus-like,  to  drink 
in  his  own  beauty  mirrored  in  the  silent  sea ; 
when  the  angel  crowning  the  Campanile 
sleeps  with  folded  wings,  lost  in  the  count- 
less stars ;  when  the  line  of  the  city  from 
across  the  wide  lagoons  is  but  a  string  of 
lights  buoying  golden  chains  that  sink  into 
the  depths ;  when  the  air  is  a  breath  of 
heaven,  and  every  sound  that  vibrates  across 
the  never-ending  wave  is  the  music  of  an- 
other world. 

No  pen  can  give  this  beauty,  no  brush  its 
color,  no  tongue  its  delight.    It  must  be  seen 
^  197 


Night  in  and  felt.  It  matters  little  how  dull  your  soul 
Venice  j^^y  j-^g^  j^Q^y  sluggish  your  imagination,  how 
dead  your  enthusiasm,  here  Nature  will  touch 
you  with  a  wand  that  will  stir  every  blunted 
sensibility  into  life.  Palaces  and  churches, 
—  poems  in  stone,  —  canvases  that  radiate, 
sombre  forests,  oases  of  olive  and  palm, 
Beethoven,  Milton,  and  even  the  great  Mi- 
chael himself,  may  have  roused  in  you  no 
quiver  of  delight  nor  thrill  of  feeling. 

But  here,  —  here  by  this  wondrous  city  of 
the  sea,  —  here,  where  the  transcendent  god- 
dess of  the  night  spreads  her  wings,  radiant 
in  the  light  of  an  August  moon,  her  brow 
studded  with  stars,  —  even  were  your  soul  of 
clay,  here  would  it  vibrate  to  the  dignity, 
the  beauty,  and  the  majesty  of  her  matchless 
presence. 

As  you  lie,  adrift  in  your  gondola,  hung  in 
mid  air,  —  so  like  a  mirror  is  the  sea,  so  vast 
the  vault  above  you,  —  how  dreamlike  the 
charm  !  How  exquisite  the  languor !  Now 
a  burst  of  music  from  the  far-off  plaza,  dying 
into  echoes  about  the  walls  of  San  Giorgio ; 
now  the  slow  tolling  of  some  bell  from  a  dis- 
tant tower ;  now  the  ripple  of  a  laugh,  or  a 
snatch  of  song,  or  the  low  cooing  of  a  lover's 
voice,  as  a  ghostly  skiff  with  drawn  curtains 
and  muffled  light  glides  past ;  and  now  the 


low  plash  of  the  rowers  as  some  phantom  Alight  in 
ship  looms  above  you  with  bow-lights  aglow,  '^^"■^'^^ 
crosses  the  highway  of  silver,  and  melts  into 
shadow. 

Suddenly  from  out  the  stillness  there  bursts 
across  the  bosom  of  the  sleeping  wave  the 
dull  boom  of  the  evening  gun,  followed  by 
the  long  blast  of  the  bugle  from  the  big  war- 
ship near  the  arsenal ;  and  then,  as  you  hold 
your  breath,  the  clear  deep  tones  of  the  great 
bell  of  the  Campanile  strike  the  hour. 

Now  is  the  spell  complete  ! 

The  Professor,  in  the  seat  beside  me,  turns 
his  head,  and,  with  a  cautioning  hand  to  Es- 
pero  to  stay  his  oar,  listens  till  each  echo 
has  had  its  say ;  first  San  Giorgio's  wall,  then 
the  Public  Garden,  and  last  the  low  murmur 
that  pulsates  back  from  the  outlying  islands 
of  the  lagoon.  On  nights  like  these  the  Pro- 
fessor rarely  talks.  He  lies  back  on  the 
yielding  cushions,  his  eyes  upturned  to  the 
stars,  the  glow  of  his  cigarette  lighting  his 
face.  Now  and  then  he  straightens  himself, 
looks  about  him,  and  sinks  back  again  on  the 
cushions,  muttering  over  and  over  again, 
"  Never  such  a  night  —  never,  never  !  "  To- 
morrow night  he  will  tell  you  the  same  thing, 
and  every  other  night  while  the  moon  lasts. 
Yet  he  is  no  empty  enthusiast.     He  is  only 

199 


Night  in  enthralled  by  the  splendor  of  his  mistress, 
Venice  ^j^jg  matchless  Goddess  of  Air  and  Light  and 
Melody.  Analyze  the  feeling  as  you  may, 
despise  its  sentiment  or  decry  it  altogether, 
the  fact  remains,  that  once  get  this  drug 
of  Venice  into  your  veins,  and  you  never 
recover.  The  same  thrill  steals  over  you 
with  every  phase  of  her  wondrous  charm,  — • 
in  the  early  morning,  in  the  blinding  glare 
of  the  noon,  in  the  cool  of  the  fading  day, 
in  the  tranquil  watches  of  the  night.  It 
is  Venice  the  Beloved,  and  there  is  none 
other ! 

Espero  has  breathed  her  air  always,  and 
hundreds  of  nights  have  come  and  gone  for 
him  ;  yet  as  he  stands  bareheaded  behind 
you,  his  oar  slowly  moving,  you  can  hear  him 
communing  with  himself  as  he  whispers, 
^^ Bella  notte,  bella  notte,''  just  as  some  other 
devotee  would  tell  his  beads  in  unconscious 
prayer.  It  is  the  spirit  of  idolatry  born  of 
her  never-ending  beauty,  that  marks  the  mar- 
vellous power  which  Venice  wields  over  hu- 
man hearts,  compelling  them,  no  matter  how 
dull  and  leaden,  to  reverence  and  to  love. 

And  the  Venetians  never  forget  !     While 

we  float  idly  back  to  the  city,  the  quays  are 

crowded  with  people,  gazing  across  the  wide 

lagoons,  drinking  in  their  beauty,  the  silver 

200 


moon  over  all.     Now  and  then  a  figure  will  Night  in 
come  down  to  the  water's  edge  and  sit  upon  ^'^'"'^^ 
some  marble  steps,  gazing  seaward.     There 
is  nothing  to  be  seen,  —  no  passing  ship,  no 
returning  boat.     It  is  only  the  night ! 

Away  up  the  canal,  Guglielmo,  the  famous 
singer,  once  a  gondolier,  is  filling  the  night 
with  music,  a  throng  of  boats  almost  bridg- 
ing the  canal,  following  him  from  place  to 
place,  Luigi,  the  primo,  in  the  lead,  —  the 
occupants  hanging  on  every  note  that  falls 
from  his  lips. 

Up  the  Zattere,  near  San  Rosario,  where 
the  afternoon  sun  blazed  but  a  few  hours 
since,  the  people  line  the  edge  of  the  marble 
quay,  their  children  about  them,  the  soft 
radiance  of  the  night  glorifying  the  Giu- 
decca.  They  are  of  all  classes,  high  and  low. 
They  love  their  city,  and  every  phase  of  her 
beauty  is  to  them  only  a  variation  of  her 
marvellous  charm.  The  Grand  Duchess  of 
the  Riva  stands  in  the  doorway  of  her  caffe, 
or  leans  from  her  chamber  window ;  Vittorio 
and  little  Appo,  and  every  other  member  of 
the  Open-Air  Club,  are  sprawled  over  the 
Ponte  Veneta  Marina,  and  even  the  fisher- 
men up  the  Pallada  sit  in  front  of  their  doors. 
Venice  is  decked  out  to-night  in  all  the  glory  of 
an  August  moon.  They  must  be  there  to  see! 

20I 


Night  in  You  motion  to  Espero,  and  with  a  twist  of 
Ve7iice  j^^g  blade  he  whirls  the  gondola  back  to  the 
line  of  farthest  lights.  As  you  approach 
nearer,  the  big  Trieste  steamer  looms  above 
you,  her  decks  crowded  with  travellers. 
Through  her  open  port-holes  you  catch  the 
blaze  of  the  electric  lights,  and  note  the 
tables  spread  and  the  open  staterooms,  the 
waiters  and  stewards  moving  within.  About 
her  landing  ladders  is  a  swarm  of  gondolas 
bringing  passengers,  the  porters  taking  up 
the  trunks  as  each  boat  discharges  in  turn. 

A  moment  more  and  you  shoot  alongside 
the  Molo  and  the  watersteps  of  the  Piazzetta. 
An  old  man  steadies  your  boat  while  you 
alight.  You  bid  Espero  good-night  and  min- 
gle with  the  throng.  What  a  transition  from 
the  stillness  of  the  dark  lagoon ! 

The  open  space  is  crowded  with  idlers 
walking  in  pairs  or  groups.  The  flambeaux 
of  gas-jets  are  ablaze.  From  behind  the  tow- 
ering Campanile  in  the  great  Piazza  comes 
a  burst  of  music  from  the  King's  Band. 
Farther  down  the  Riva,  beyond  the  Ponte 
Paglia,  is  heard  the  sound  of  another  band. 
Everywhere  are  color  and  light  and  music. 
Everywhere  stroll  the  happy,  restful,  con- 
tented people,  intoxicated  with  the  soft  air, 
the  melody,  and  the  beauty  of  the  night. 


If  you  think  you  know  San  Marco,  come  Night  in 
stand  beneath  its  rounded  portals  and  look  ^'^''"'^'^ 
up.  The  deep  coves,  which  in  the  daylight 
are  lost  in  the  shadows  of  the  dominant  sun, 
are  now  illumined  by  the  glare  of  a  hundred 
gas-jets  from  the  street  below.  What  you 
saw  in  the  daylight  is  lost  in  the  shadow,  — 
the  shadowed  coves  now  brilliant  in  light. 
To  your  surprise,  as  you  look,  you  find  them 
filled  with  inscriptions  and  studded  with  jew- 
els of  mosaic,  which  flash  and  glint  in  the 
glare  of  the  blazing  flambeaux.  All  the  pic- 
tures over  the  great  doors  now  stand  out  in 
bold  coloring,  with  each  caramel  of  mosaic 
distinct  and  clear.  Over  every  top-moulding 
you  note  little  beads  and  dots  of  gray  and 
black.  If  you  look  closer  two  beads  will  be- 
come one,  and  soon  another  will  burst  into 
wings.  They  are  the  countless  pigeons  roost- 
ing on  the  carving.  They  are  out  of  your 
reach,  some  fifty  feet  above  you,  undisturbed 
by  all  this  glitter  and  sound. 

As  you  turn  and  face  the  great  square  of 
the  Piazza,  you  find  it  crowded  to  the  very 
arcades  under  the  surrounding  palaces,  with 
a  moving  mass  of  people,  the  tables  of  the 
caffes  reaching  almost  to  the  band-stand 
placed  in  the  middle.  Florian's  is  full,  hardly 
a  seat  to  be  had.     Auguste  and  his  men  are 

203 


Night  hi  bringing  ices  and  cooling  drinks.  The  old 
Venice  Duchess  of  uncertain  age,  with  the  pink  veil, 
is  in  her  accustomed  seat,  and  so  are  the 
white-gloved  officers  with  waxed  mustaches, 
and  the  pretty  Venetian  girls  with  their 
mothers  and  duennas.  The  Professor  drops 
into  his  seat  against  the  stone  pillar,  —  the 
seat  covered  with  leather,  —  lights  another 
cigarette,  and  makes  a  sign  to  Auguste.  It 
is  the  same  old  order,  a  cup  of  coffee  and  the 
smallest  drop  of  Cognac  that  can  be  brought 
in  a  tear-bottle  of  a  decanter  the  size  of  your 
thumb. 

When  the  music  is  over  you  stroll  along 
the  arcades  and  under  the  Bocca  del  Leo7ie, 
and  through  the  narrow  streets  leading  to 
the  Campo  of  San  Moise,  and  so  over  the 
bridge  near  the  Bauer-Grlinwald  to  the  crack 
in  the  wall  that  leads  you  to  the  rear  of  your 
own  quarter.  Then  you  cross  your  garden 
and  mount  the  steps  to  your  rooms,  and  so 
out  upon  your  balcony. 

The  canal  is  deserted.  The  music-boats 
have  long  since  put  out  their  lanterns  and 
tied  up  for  the  night.  The  lighters  at  the 
Dogana  opposite  lie  still  and  motionless,  their 
crews  asleep  under  the  mats  stretched  on 
the  decks.  Away  up  in  the  blue  swims  the 
silver  moon,  attended  by  an  escort  of  clouds 
204 


hovering  close  about  her.     Towering  above  Night  in 
you  rises  the  great  dome  of  the  Salute,  si-  ^^^'■^'^^ 
lent,  majestic,  every  statue,  cross,  and  scroll 
bathed  in  the  glory  of  her  light. 

Suddenly,  as  you  hang  over  your  balcony, 
the  soft  night  embracing  you,  the  odor  of 
oleanders  filling  the  air,  you  hear  the  quick 
movement  of  a  flute  borne  on  the  night  wind 
from  away  up  the  Iron  Bridge.  Nearer  it 
comes,  nearer,  the  clear,  bird-like  notes  float- 
ing over  the  still  canal  and  the  deserted  city. 
You  lean  forward  and  catch  the  spring  and 
rhythm  of  the  two  gondoliers  as  they  glide 
past,  keeping  time  to  the  thrill  of  the  mel- 
ody. You  catch,  too,  the  abandon  and  charm 
of  it  all.  He  is  standing  over  her,  his  head 
uncovered,  the  moonlight  glinting  on  the 
uplifted  reed  at  his  lips.  She  lies  on  the 
cushions  beneath  him,  throat  and  shoulders 
bare,  a  light  scarf  about  her  head.  It  is  only 
a  glimpse,  but  it  lingers  in  your  memory  for 
years,  — you  on  the  balcony  and  alone. 

Out  they  go,  —  out  into  the  wide  lagoon, 
—  out  into  the  soft  night,  under  the  glory 
of  the  radiant  stars.  Fainter  and  fainter 
falls  the  music,  dimmer  and  dimmer  pales 
the  speck  with  its  wake  of  silver. 

Then  all  is  still  ! 

205 


CAMBRIDGE,  MASSACHUSETTS,  U.  S.  A, 

ELECTROTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY 

H.  O.  HOUGHTON    AND   CO. 


University  ol  Calitomia.  Los  Angeles 


L  006  622  636  6 


..JllJ;  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  091  974 


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